Portrait
by mysweetone
Summary: Canon/AU. Imagines Edith's life as a journalist and how an unexpected writing assignment could change everything. May hit 'M' later. I own nothing.
1. Chapter 1

"Lady Edith?"

She looked up from her typing. Michael gestured for her to come into his office.

"Yes?"

"I have a possible assignment for you—an award-winning one or, perhaps, if you're still considering writing a book…this might be what you're looking for." He handed her the file folder on his desk, but it was sealed.

"What is it?" She looked from the folder back up to him, with a smile.

His expression was difficult to read, enigmatic. "There's quite a lot of information in here regarding the long-term effects of the war…the post-war challenges of those who fought…the stories that went hidden during the war itself…and…" He paused, looking away from her for a moment, determining his phrasing carefully. "Let's just say that the potential subject is one with whom you're acquainted...quite accessible, I think, that is if you want to pursue the project?"

Edith's eyes darted to the folder again. "Michael—what do you mean? Is this—"

"That's all I'm going to say," he said, holding up his hand. "You being a writer, I'm going to allow you to do with it what you will—I would only advise that you make time to look through the file carefully tonight. We've been invited to cover the general's retirement tomorrow evening and a potentially important piece to your project should be in attendance…and available to you, so to speak."

Edith felt the rush of anticipation and intrigue, snatched the folder off his desk, and gave him a determined grin before dashing out. Over her shoulder, she called, "I'm taking this back to my flat to look over during lunch—see you after."

As she entered her flat, Edith dropped her purse, and tore open the folder with passionate intent, but without disturbing the contents. She began to examine the files, swiftly moving to her table as Mrs. Chambliss laid out a few sandwiches and tea for luncheon. Edith emptied the rest of the folder in a flurry. The papers became strewn around the dishes and as she combed through them, overwhelmed by the fine print and markings of "Classified," Edith noticed the photographs interspersed with the papers.

"Oh my God…" Her fingers moved to cover her mouth as she gasped and squinted, bringing the photo closer.

"Is everything all right, milady?" Mrs. Chambliss called to her from the kitchen.

"Yes, yes…" Edith managed. "Sorry, Mrs. Chambliss-so sorry."

Lying in front of her on the table was Sir Anthony Strallan. The grainy photograph showed him, seemingly unaware of the camera, his eyes focused at papers on the table, and he was sitting with other men in some sort of room, a board behind them with drawings and plans of some sort. Edith grabbed the photo and turned it over for a date, but there wasn't one. She slid the other papers out of the way searching for more photographs and found two others: Anthony standing in full dress uniform posing with two other soldiers, all three somber; and another photograph that Edith took over to a lamp to see more closely—two men carrying another one, badly injured, covered in blood, and unconscious with a ripped open tunic exposing his entire right side and abrasions and what looked to be deep contusions covering what she could make out of his upper body and his face, which appeared to be badly beaten. She recognized him then: the curve of his jaw, the thin line of his bottom lip in the midst of the beard, the brow line marred by blood... Edith turned it over and scrutinized the smudged printing on the back. "Major Strallan found, Winter, 1917." Studying the photo, Edith tried to put him together in her mind—what she knew of him, what she was looking at, the records in front of her that she began to skim and saw had his name woven throughout them…surrounded with words like "secret" and "rescue" and "torture" and "duty" and "honour" and "medals." Edith sat stunned and then, staring at the photograph of his war-torn body, remembering him—the man she had loved and fought for, and the one who had left her—she wept.

Edith calmed herself and took several sips of tea. She stared at the photo of Anthony in uniform, laid it down next to the one in which he was almost unrecognizable in the arms of the soldiers. "Tomorrow night you'll be at the dinner…" she whispered. "It's been almost two years…what will I say to you?" She touched his face in the uniform photo, and then lightly traced his broken body in the other. "Should I even…? Will you let me near…?"

* * *

A/N: Short intro to something I've been thinking on for a while. Thank you for reading/reviewing.


	2. Chapter 2

Anthony frowned at himself in the mirror.

"Anything wrong, Sir?" Stewart asked, looking from the mirror back to Anthony.

Anthony quickly shook his head. "No, Stewart—you've done the best you can given what you have to work with." The two men smiled, half-heartedly, at Anthony's self-deprecating nature. "I simply dread this sort of thing is all."

"I'll be downstairs then, Sir, to wait with the taxi car."

"Thank you, Stewart," Anthony replied, looking down at his uniform and back at himself in the mirror. After Stewart departed, Anthony closed his eyes and set his left hand on the bathroom sink to steady himself. He took two deep breaths and looked in the mirror once more. It revealed the same truth as before: his uniform too large for his gaunt figure, his blue eyes underscored by dark circles, and his arm still lifeless in the sling.

* * *

"Help with the clasp, please?" Edith passed the necklace to Michael.

He obliged, coming up behind her to assist. "You look stunning," he said, kissing her neck.

Edith was having second thoughts. "Thank you. But, Michael, I think I'd like to go alone tonight—I mean, I don't think we should arrive together."

Michael frowned. "Of course, if you think it's best." He watched her as she touched up her hair in the mirror, her fingers giving away a slight tremor of nerves. "Um…Edith, does this have to do with Strallan?"

Edith's eyes never left the mirror, darting over her appearance continuously. "No, no, I just don't think we should be seen as a couple is all; you know as well as I that rumors have been rampant as of late and—"

Michael nodded then, checking his pocket watch for the time. "Of course, darling. If you think it's best, then I'll arrive later and chat up some of the other officers present, maybe collect a couple of statements suitable for print." She turned and offered a polite kiss on the cheek and a curt smile, brushing past him. "That sort of thing," he said, a postscript she ignored as she hurried to leave.

* * *

The Savoy dining room met everyone's expectation of elegance for the grand evening: crisp table cloths, immaculate table settings, and brilliant lights from polished chandeliers. Ushers and hotel staff scurried to serve as men in dress uniforms filed in and found seats or mingled with friends and familiar-but-distant brothers from the years past. As she entered through the main door, Edith was surrounded by men in dress uniforms, but she drew immediate attention as a young man took her umbrella and helped her remove her wet coat, revealing her form-fitting, pearl white evening gown. She'd dressed for confidence—and for Anthony, a fact she admitted to herself in the mirror while applying her makeup.

Edith located the tables in the back reserved for the few members of the press allowed. After she greeted several of the other journalists—all males—Edith surveyed the room and began mingling on the outskirts of the crowd. Within a few minutes, she noticed a large congregation become quiet near one of the doors as one of the soldiers held it open; the others parted in an instant, saluting briefly. Edith spied an opening between those around her and moved closer, tilting her head at a better angle to see General Allenby appear. Now within earshot, though, she heard instead, "Major."

"Evening, Major."

"How are you, Sir?"

The greetings were simultaneous and Major Anthony Strallan only nodded, returning their gestures of respect as best he could, half-smiling and half-wincing at the attention painfully colliding with his shy nature.

Edith quickly stepped back behind soldiers now moving towards him, knowing it was much too soon to approach him. She stood observing for a few minutes, amazed at what she was witnessing.

"I see the waters part for him," Michael whispered in her ear, making her jump.

Edith only shook her head, annoyed at such a statement.

"Sorry—didn't mean to alarm you. It's just that he doesn't seem to be enjoying himself," Michael continued.

"It's all right." Edith took a breath, but kept her eyes on the group surrounding Anthony. "Of course he's not enjoying himself. I'm not sure what sort of impression you gleaned of him during our conversations, but the man is not attention-seeking. He's terribly, terribly shy and ever since he was hurt—" She caught Michael staring at her, suspicion coloring his features as they both registered the sudden softening of her tone as she came to Anthony's defense. "It's just that this sort of thing is his worst nightmare." Edith's mind flashed then to the picture of him after his rescue. "Well, almost his worst nightmare…" she said, barely a whisper.

"What?" Michael leaned in closer to hear her.

"Nothing," Edith said. As she saw the group moving towards tables to sit and Anthony enduring polite conversations with the other men, she continued her retreat to a far corner of the room near her table in the back. Michael watched her, curious, but then turned his attention back to the crowd and Major Anthony Strallan.

"Lady Edith Crawley?" A uniformed man approached her.

Edith only glanced in his direction, still keeping her eyes trained on Anthony's whereabouts in the room. "Yes?"

"He doesn't know you're here, milady."

Edith turned then. "Stewart! Oh my goodness—it's been so long. I didn't recognize you in…in your military uniform." She felt the emotion catch in her throat.

"Quite all right, milady." Stewart offered a gentle smile. "He didn't want to come at all. Duty and friendship couldn't keep him away."

Edith turned her attention back to Anthony, now listening to two other soldiers regaling him. "I know…" She said. "How is he?"

Stewart stared across the room at Anthony as well, giving little away to Edith—knowing she could read him anyway. "Not well…he's…distracted often and…thin, as you can see."

Edith nodded, still unable to take her eyes off Anthony. "He's too thin, but he's still just…" She didn't need to finish and Stewart, smiling ever so slightly, watched her as she continued to observe Anthony. Despite his slim frame, his blonde hair with the red dress uniform jacket captivated her. She'd never seen him in it. The medals and ribbons were more than she could count from the distance across the room. Surveying the company around her, she noticed he was easily one of the most decorated men there—and, in Edith's assessment, by far the most striking. She turned to Stewart, "What do you mean 'distracted'?"

Stewart hesitated.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't put you in that position," Edith apologized. "I should go and sit down. It looks like the dinner's about to begin. Thank you, Stewart. It's good to see you." Edith started off toward her table.

Stewart reached for her arm. "Milady?"

Edith turned back to him.

"I think you should know how…how sorry he is. I know he—" He swallowed and looked over at Anthony, still across the room talking with the general who had just arrived. "I apologize. I can't speak for him—or overstep my bounds."

"It's quite all right, Stewart," Edith assured him. "I'm well aware of how much he means to you—all of you there at Locksley."

"It's good to see you, milady. I do hope….well, I hope to see you again soon," Stewart smiled, and then walked away to his table filled already with other gentlemen in their respective uniforms.

The dinner began with a champagne toast and Edith noted Anthony was seated in the front near the general's table. A brief speech by the general's long-time friend, a fellow colonel, came before the entrée was served and the audience laughed politely, applauding enthusiastically. Edith continued to keep her attention on Anthony; he, however, sat mostly listening to his fellow table guests and either focused courteously on them as they spoke or stared absently at the table.

When the entrée was served, Edith cringed. The waiter placed Anthony's plate in front of him—uncut meat. "Oh God," she gasped, her fists clenched in her lap beneath the table. She prayed the meat was tender enough for him to cut with the fork. Worse, the waiter began making what appeared to be profuse apologies and gestures, only causing more attention and compounding Anthony's misery, before the waiter leaned in to offer to cut it for him right then. Edith shut her eyes to it, feeling the scarlet heat of humiliation for him—even at a friendly gathering of fellow soldiers, some of whom were missing limbs or were affected in other ways. Anthony's expression was stone, but his coloring only missed his jacket by a shade. Edith felt the piercing of tears in her own eyes and excused herself from the table, unable to watch or simply sit and endure it without wanting to intervene—to rescue him somehow.

* * *

Across the room, Anthony stared straight ahead, allowing the waiter to wield the knife and fork he could not—and then he saw a woman in white hurrying towards the exit in the back—and blinked to clear his vision. "Edith?"

"Sorry, Sir?" The waiter paused, looking down at Anthony.

He shook his head at the waiter. "My apologies—it's nothing."

Anthony's eyes scanned the room then, searching again, certain he was mistaken in seeing her. Then, he saw a dark-haired man near the table in the back suddenly rise and leave as well. Within seconds, though, Anthony spotted Stewart leaving through the same door that the woman and the man used—and he knew.

"Gracious! I wonder what's so exciting back there," Captain Jacobs exclaimed, taking another sip of his champagne and leaning into Anthony's right ear.

Anthony subtly leaned away from him, "I'll return shortly. Please excuse me. I'm not feeling well."

"Do you need anything, Major?" The captain asked, standing, as Anthony stood. "Can I help you, Sir?"

Anthony shook his head, now aware of all the attention on him yet again as several other officers stood to see if everything was all right. Anthony waved his good hand. "It's fine—thank you. I'm just going to get some fresh air. Thank you. Please—it's all right." He walked out the opposite door near the front of the room, trying to breathe, walking quickly to find the nearest exit to the building.

* * *

"Michael! I'm fine—please go back in. It's all right."

"Edith, clearly you're not all right—you're practically in tears. What is it? Nothing's even happened yet, has it? You haven't even spoken to him?"

Edith jerked her arm from him as he reached for her. "It's fine. Just leave me alone, please! I'll be back in after a while. I just need some air."

Michael gestured towards the doors. "It's pouring outside, darling, there's no air to go to other than the lobby on the other side of the building. Do you want me to walk with you?"

"No! I don't want—" Edith stopped.

"Is everything all right, milady?" Stewart asked, eyeing Michael with concern.

Michael turned. "Who are you?"

"Yes, Stewart, I'm fine. This is my editor, Michael Gregson. He was just…checking on me," she raised her eyebrows, imploring Michael to get the point. "Michael, this is Stewart, he's Sir Anthony Strallan's valet."

Michael extended a hand, which Stewart took reluctantly. "If you're fine, then I'll return inside," Michael said, realizing now the connection.

"Thank you," Edith offered, her tone dry.

As Michael walked away and returned to the dining room, Stewart offered her his handkerchief. "It was the meat, wasn't it?"

Edith pursed her lips. "Yes," she confessed. "I couldn't bear seeing him like that…" She dabbed her eyes.

"He's all right—I mean, he's used to it happening, which is why he hates these sorts of dinners. Well, one of the many reasons he can't stand them, I should say," Stewart clarified, frowning and looking around to see if anyone else was nearby in the corridor. "Do you wish for me to let him know you're here? To give him a message, perhaps, milady?"

Edith returned his handkerchief, and then she turned to look out the windows to the street, the rain coming down in waves outside. "This was a terrible idea, I'm afraid, Stewart." She began walking towards the usher and coat check room with her ticket. The March air and the rain would be freezing outside. "I'm sorry for your trouble." Stewart was a few steps behind her coming around the corner.

Edith took her coat from the clerk and moved towards the outside doors to leave.

"Ah, Stewart, there you are. I've been—" Anthony hushed, unable to breathe as his mind caught up with the image in front of him.

Edith stilled.

Stewart turned, caught between the two of them. "Yes, Sir, I needed to…"

Edith placed a hand on Stewart's shoulder, her eyes on Anthony. "It's all right, Stewart. You can return to the dinner—he was only checking on me…Major Strallan. I apologize for any inconvenience."

"No, not at all. It's just…" Anthony grimaced at Edith's use of his rank, an unfamiliar twinge in his chest-embarrassment at her seeing him in his uniform on display. Then his thoughts became frenzied as he stared at her for a moment in the dress, mesmerized. He forced himself to face his valet instead. "Of course, Stewart, if you wish to return to the dinner—please, by all means." Anthony glanced around, his eyes betraying his anxiety.

"You're certain, Sir?"

Anthony nodded. "Of course, you should be in attendance. He was one of your commanders. It's fine—please."

Stewart hesitated for a moment, but then turned on his heel and re-entered the dining room as applause broke out and cheers went up for the general's introduction.

Edith surveyed Anthony then, at once marveling at the sight of him in full service dress—but plagued with the constriction in her chest, the ache she knew would be there upon seeing him…now only a few feet from her. "Hello."

Anthony looked in her direction, but only briefly before his own feelings of shame forced him into studying the expensive tiling of the floor. "Lady Edith."

"He wasn't one of your commanders."

"No, no, he's an old friend, a good man…an excellent officer…" Anthony rambled.

"I'm here tonight…to see you." Edith meant to be coy, to put him off for a moment.

"I'm sorry?" He said, lifting his head, the confusion obvious.

"I'm a journalist now."

"Yes," he nodded, "I'm aware. I've read all of your articles…" The tone of his voice astonished her. Edith thought she heard…what? Pride? Admiration?

Edith took two steps closer, now within arm's reach of him, but noted he seemed to recoil from her—his back arching to distance himself, stand straighter, a barrier established to avoid her or any perceived intimacy or closeness? "Yes, a journalist and I've received an offer recently. I came to ask your assistance, if you will? It was an enclosed file, given to me as a special assignment…a file with information regarding you…and the war." She studied his expression, the brow creasing, and the sweat evident from his growing panic.

"A file? How did you—? I—I don't know what you mean," he said, evading her. "I'm sorry, Lady Edith, but I really must go—"

"No, Anthony, I have an assignment and it's for articles—or even a book—and some of it is concerning your time away…in France, was it? I wanted to speak to—"

Anthony began to back away from her. "No, I'm afraid I can't talk about what happened—" His blue eyes were wide, fear gripping him, and his voice was soft but insistent.

"Anthony, I _need _to talk with you-to understand, " Edith's voice rose even as Anthony's quieted. "It's an important assignment and opportunity and I can tell you're so _respected _here—that you were involved in something crucial. I only want to do right by you, to learn and present what happened and tell your story. I've seen pictures already and I just have questions that I need answered. Can we at least talk like civilized people? Like we used to..." Her voice quieted then. "This is significant for me, please—"

Edith's words and reasoning were lost; he couldn't hear them. "I'm sorry, but I can't talk about it. I won't. Please don't ask me—I beg you—" As he was backing towards the doors, Anthony was shaking his head in disbelief at her request, his heart pounding at the mention of photographs and the war—flashbacks coming at such force with the panic rising in him that they were already causing his attention to divide between past and present.

"You owe me this—don't you agree?" Edith demanded, touching his arm and drawing his attention back to her and the present. She held him there; her features radiating the pent-up anger she'd felt for almost two years. Then, in a venomous and anguished whisper, "I was moments away from vowing to be your wife—declaring my love for you in front of everyone, despite no one understanding me, or, God forbid, the two of us together—I stood by you…and you humiliated me…just left me there expecting me to—what?—understand? Agree with you—and the rest of them—like some child who couldn't quite see the _wisdom_ _and honor _in what you were doing, as though you were saving me from some dreadful end I was too stupid to imagine? Is that it? Is it? My God, Anthony, don't you think you owe me _something _in return?" Edith broke, her eyes welling and pleading for him to answer her in some way, and then uncontrollable tears and heaving to catch her breath. "I'm sorry," she said, looking up at him again. "I'm so sorry—I didn't mean to…"

Anthony, visibly stricken, whispered, "I'm sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am to have hurt you. Edith, forgive me…I'm so…" He drew a breath, but couldn't find the words. Pained, he turned then, unable to stand seeing her distraught, uncertain as to what to say, and walked out of the grand hotel, disappearing into the dark downpour of the cold night.

Edith returned to her flat, still crying. When she arrived, Mrs. Chambliss saw the red, puffy eyes and immediately offered Edith tea and cakes before retreating upstairs to bed. Edith stayed up, sipping the tea, and staring once more at the files. After over an hour of reading the material and making more notes regarding the file and the dinner, she stood and stretched to relieve the tension in her back. The rain had begun hours before when she first arrived at the dinner, but now it was once again torrential. She looked outside, barely able to make out the streetlamp by the corner bench just yards across from her front door—and then she looked at it again, squinting into the darkness.

Edith threw the door open and ran outside into the sheets of rain, not even looking before crossing the street. "Anthony!" She kneeled in the puddle in front of the bench, taking his face in her hands. "Anthony! Are you all right?" His eyes were open, his lashes battered by the pouring rain, but he wasn't responsive...

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think...


	3. Chapter 3

_Edith returned to her flat, still crying. When she arrived, Mrs. Chambliss saw the red, puffy eyes and immediately offered Edith tea and cakes before retreating upstairs to bed. Edith stayed up, sipping the tea, and staring once more at the files. After over an hour of reading the material and making more notes regarding the file and the dinner, she stood and stretched to relieve the tension in her back. The rain had begun hours before when she first arrived at the dinner, but now it was once again torrential. She looked outside, barely able to make out the streetlamp by the corner bench just yards across from her front door—and then she looked at it again, squinting into the darkness. _

_Edith threw the door open and ran outside into the sheets of rain, not even looking before crossing the street. "Anthony!" She kneeled in the puddle in front of the bench, taking his face in her hands. "Anthony? Are you all right?" His eyes were open, his lashes battered by the pouring rain, but he wasn't responsive…_

He was looking through her rather than becoming aware of her presence. She tried to pull him up, to get him to stand. "Anthony!" She raised her voice to be heard over the downpour. "Anthony! I need to get you out of the rain—come on. Darling, please!" His words of reply were incoherent, mumbled. She pulled him from the bench, almost falling herself. Anthony's tall frame made it a struggle. As the rain poured on them, she half-dragged him, his body shivering uncontrollably, to her door as he leaned into her and tried to walk.

Edith swung the door open and screamed, frantic, "Mrs. Chambliss! Mrs. Chambliss!"

Edith helped him lean against the wall, rain sweeping in behind them as she pushed the door shut. "Anthony? Talk to me! What's happened?"

His eyes were now barely open. "Ee…th…" His head fell to her shoulder. The rest of his body was racked with tremors, cold rainwater streaming off of his saturated uniform, creating a puddle on the floor.

His head rested on the shoulder of her now-soaked nightclothes she'd already changed into after returning home. Edith, starting to shiver a bit, too, took his ruined arm, slipped it out of the sling, and then removed the sling over his head. She tried to take his uniform jacket off him, but the weight from the water and the way it clung to him made it much more challenging than it should have been.

"Lady Edith, what is this? Oh! My goodness! Is he all right?" Mrs. Chambliss tried to help Edith with Anthony's jacket. "The rain must be like ice! What a terrible night to be out in this weather!" The two women worked together on the uniform fastenings, pushing it off of him. Mrs. Chambliss was too brisk, though.

"Careful of his arm!" Edith scolded. "His right arm is damaged—I've already removed the sling. But we should be gentle." Edith held him there, her hands on his shoulders to steady him.

"So sorry, milady—I didn't know," Mrs. Chambliss said, taking the jacket then upstairs and calling back, "I'll get some towels and blankets—my goodness, but I've never seen such shivering."

"Yes, blankets and towels—hurry—and do stoke the fire in the bedroom—I'm going to help him up there to warm him and make sure he can rest." Edith pushed Anthony's hair back and felt his cheek. "Anthony, my God, you're freezing," she whispered. "Anthony?" She held his head up again to try to talk to him. "We've got to get you upstairs and out of these wet clothes. Please—you've got to help me. Anthony?"

Anthony's eyes were closed, his breaths shallow. As they tried to move him then, she realized how stiff he was from the cold and the heaviness of the wet uniform. It took all her strength to coax him to move.

They started up the steps, but it was a hazardous endeavor—they both almost fell twice and Edith was shaking from the chill and exertion by the time they reached her bedroom.

She led him to the bed and helped him sit. The violence in his trembling was relentless; she couldn't tell if it was just rain and cold or if he was sick and seizing. "Anthony?" She continued to whisper, trying to catch her breath. "I'm just going to help you get the clothes off and tuck you into bed. We've got to get you warm—and we've got to do it quickly…"

Mrs. Chambliss came into the room, scurrying to set the blankets down and tend to the fire. "Here you go—I'm going to dry up the floors, too. Is there anything else I can do, milady?"

"No, we're just going to get him out of these wet clothes and under the blankets."

"How long was he out there?" Mrs. Chambliss asked, her shock evident.

Edith shook her head, frightened. "I don't know…long enough to almost freeze to death…"

"You do know him, though?"

"Yes, yes, I do…it's all right now." Edith assured her, kneeling to remove Anthony's boots and socks. "I'm just going to get him into the bed. Then, I'll change into some dry clothes and stay with him. You go on back to bed, Mrs. Chambliss. I'll call if we need anything," Edith said, placing the wet boots on a dry towel nearby.

"You're sure you don't need any help?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Now that he's up here we'll be fine. Thank you," Edith said, turning to her, insisting on her leaving.

Edith paused then to allow the woman to depart before turning back to Anthony's drenched dress and undershirt. There was no way she would allow him any hurt or embarrassment of a stranger seeing his scars. She hesitated, her mind flashing to the photograph, preparing herself for the sight. Taking a deep breath, she pulled his shirt up, working around his body—his skin frigid to her touch—and then struggling with one arm at a time. Once she had the shirt off him, Edith disregarded the tears now steadily slipping down her cheeks, and she pushed herself not to stop and examine the flawed, fragmented flesh in her periphery that mapped his shoulder, arm, and upper chest. Instead, she tossed the shirt aside, knowing time was critical, and quickly grabbed a blanket to wrap around him.

"Edith…" His speech was slurred, his teeth still chattering.

"Yes?" Edith paused, holding his face again, but his eyes were closed. She took a towel and dried his hair as best she could, smoothing it gently back in place, before she shifted him to lie back on the pillow. "Anthony? It's all right. You're going to be fine." She removed his wet trousers, drying his legs and feet with one of the towels, and then she lifted his legs to tuck him under the covers, pulling the blankets tight and close to his body. "It's going to be all right…you have to—you have to be all right, please," she insisted.

Edith went to her wardrobe and hurried to change clothes in the adjoining bathroom. Then, dressed again, she climbed into the bed beside him, continuing to push his hair back and feel his forehead for any sign of fever or illness. Anthony had rolled a bit to his left side, still shivering beneath the blankets, and pulled his knees up slightly towards his chest. Edith settled behind him, first gasping at the iciness of his skin biting through her gown, before taking a breath and curling herself tighter against him. She wrapped her arms around his chest as best she could, her lips whispering at his shoulder and ear, reassuring him, praying the warmth from the fire and blankets and her body would spread to him rapidly enough to keep his condition from worsening, to keep him with her.

Finally, Anthony's body warmed and became still and slack, relaxed in Edith's arms. She felt his breathing even and become deeper, his heartbeat steady against her hands. He murmured in his sleep, but Edith couldn't make anything of it. "Sshhhh…" She soothed, and then she fell asleep a short while later, still holding him tightly against her, heads nearly touching on the pillow.

When she woke a few hours later, she was almost too warm. Her eyes opened and she stared at his back, and the broad, scarred right shoulder, and the line of his neck in front of her. No longer in danger and panic-stricken, Edith took a breath, inhaling the scent of him—rain, wool from his uniform, and somehow the slightest hint of his shaving lotion that she always loved. But there was something different, new that she noticed—the essence of the two of them, their scent from the warmth of their bodies together under the blankets. Edith smiled even as she closed her eyes, the tears at her lashes. She gently moved her hands on his chest unable to see but taking pleasure in the feel of his skin against her, the tightness of his chest under her fingertips. When he suddenly shifted onto his back, she barely avoided him and lightly moved to the side, jerking her arms away from his body, and stilled, not wanting to wake him. Anthony's shoulders were just above the blanket and she couldn't help but want to touch him again. Cautiously, holding her breath, Edith sat up beside him and eased the blanket away to fully reveal his arms and chest. Edith's hand first moved to trace his brow, brush his stray blonde hair that had fallen on his forehead. The touch moved to his neck, down the scars along his right side—his shoulder and arm; Edith's caress was fragile, reverent, as her mind recalled the photo of him injured and the times during their engagement when she'd been held by him or been close and had never known him, had never imagined the brokenness lingering beneath the polite, gentlemanly demeanor and his utter love and adoration of her. Anthony had always put her first: choosing to please her, letting her lead the two of them, delighting in giving her anything she wanted… Edith realized then that she hadn't been aware at all of how much she didn't see of him, how much he seemed to protect her from knowing about what happened to him, brushing off topics of the war or remaining silent as they came up on occasion—their time together limited, filled with family gatherings rather than the closeness of the two of them, and even the time alone was more about her...he'd always made certain of that. Edith bent then and kissed his shoulder, and then the more ragged, extensive scarring surrounding the bullet wound. She let her lips linger on his skin, tasting her tears as they fell, until she felt him stirring beside her, and then she quickly wiped away the tears and covered him again with the blankets. He didn't wake, but only turned his head towards her. She whispered, "I lo—" and caught herself, shutting her eyes and drawing a deep breath.

Edith moved carefully from the bed. The sunlight peeked through the split curtain of her bedroom. She went over and pulled the curtain tighter, securing it to keep the darkness in while Anthony remained resting, peaceful after the turmoil of the previous night.

Edith proceeded to her wardrobe first, dressing for the day, and then downstairs for coffee and found Mrs. Chambliss already cooking breakfast, humming to herself. "How is he?"

Edith poured herself a cup of the steaming coffee and added a bit of cream and sugar. "He's sleeping still."

"How long did it take to settle him?"

Edith took a sip, thinking. "I'm not sure—I lost track of time, honestly. He was so cold…"

Mrs. Chambliss glanced at Edith, seeing the tired and distant look in her eyes. "Are you all right, milady?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," Edith lied.

A knock at the door surprised them both. As she walked to answer the door, Edith glanced at the clock in the parlor. "I've no idea who that could be," Edith said.

She opened the door and saw the understanding and apologetic look on the man's face. "Stewart—hello. Please come in."

The valet held a bag and stepped into Edith's entryway. "I won't stay long, but I knew he'd need a change of clothes."

Edith stared at him in disbelief. "You knew he was here?"

Stewart's mouth quirked, forming a sad sort of smile. "I did." He gestured to the bag and Edith took it, setting it by the stairs.

"Stewart, please—come in. We have to talk," Edith wouldn't take a refusal and Stewart knew not to try.

The two of them sat at the table and the files Edith had spread out were quickly stacked and thrust to the side to make room for coffee cups and breakfast plates. Mrs. Chambliss exchanged pleasantries and introductions with Stewart, poured him a cup of coffee, and then she dutifully left them alone to talk.

"I've never seen him like that. Has he done this sort of thing before? My God, Stewart he almost froze to death," Edith said, unable to contain her fear for Anthony's well-being.

Stewart nodded, sipping his coffee, considering how much he had the right to explain to Edith. "He has—it's happened several times since he returned from the war, milady. Usually, something sets him off—a post or an invitation to a dinner or…bad memories, I suppose. Sometimes, it just happens. Like his nightmares—infrequent and unpredictable...but terrifying and very real for him. Last night, I think it was a combination of circumstances," he paused, looked her in the eye, "but it was mostly seeing you. He was…amazed by you. I'm sure you could tell that."

Edith blushed, sipped her coffee, and absently tucked a curl behind her ear. "I was, too, by him…it's just been so long since we…" Her attention drifted.

"Yes, milady?"

"I think it was what I was asking of him that, as you say, 'set him off.' These papers," she pointed to the file stacked near them, "detail his time—or at least some of it—during the war."

Stewart tilted his head back and nodded. "Ah, I see. That certainly would have been enough—you and a mention of him during the war at once, milady. To answer your question more directly, he usually sits in silence, in his study—sometimes staring out the window or just at his papers or books…distracted, as I said before. He's prone to walking endlessly, as though he's lost sometimes on his own estate. The weather doesn't matter…day or night…he just disappears without a word and when we realize what's happened…I leave and try to find him, bring him back as soon as I can. It was the worst when he first returned, and it improved for a short while, but it's resumed and happened more often in recent years—"

"So, something happened to make it better," she began, excited, reaching for a pen and paper near her files. "When—what short while—when it improved?"

"The spring and early summer of 1920." Stewart let her finish writing it down and watched it dawn on her. She looked up at him, her brown eyes glistening as the emotion surfaced.

"Oh. Oh God. I see," she whispered. Edith stared at the file, remembering Anthony's look of terror at the mention of it at the hotel. Then, she thought, "Stewart, how did he know about my flat—where to find me?"

His lips pursed then. "If I tell you—"

Edith reached for his arm. "Please, Stewart—I won't say anything."

"Mr. Branson has visited a couple of times at Locksley on…business, so to speak."

"Business?"

"Sir Anthony has worked with him in regards to the farms at Downton, I believe. Offering his advice, that sort of thing." Stewart waited for her response, taking a sip of his coffee.

Edith nodded, a look of pride in her eyes. "Of course…of course, being absolutely brilliant, he would be the best to go to and my brother-in-law wouldn't settle for less no matter what happened before with Anthony and the family…and me," she added, quietly acknowledging the past. "I take it you're keeping this confidential because no one at Downton is aware of this…friendship between the two of them?"

Stewart smiled, shaking his head.

"Ah," Edith grinned. "So is friendship the right word? I imagine the two of them get on quite well?"

"Yes, they seem to, milady. Mr. Branson has stayed to lunch several times."

Edith thought then, a slight smile playing on her lips. "I wonder how I became a topic of conversation…"

Stewart stared at his coffee cup, unable to give her answer to that particular query. "Should I stay and assist him this morning? Bring him back to his townhouse?"

Edith ignored his question, her attention arrested by a new idea. "Stewart, do you think if I could ask him about the war—pursue this project, as it were—in a way that would protect him, keep him in some way anonymous to the public…do you think it would _help_ him fight these…these terrible episodes he has and help him…well, in a manner of speaking, help him to heal? To talk about it with someone who loves—sorry, cares," she blushed at the indiscreet admission, "cares for him very much, I mean, wouldn't that help, do you think?"

Stewart studied her, seeing the light in her eyes—the obvious hope, and then took another sip of coffee. "I think," he said, measuring his reply, "it would be best if you made that offer to him, milady." He smiled then. "I think if he initially refused you that it…well, it wouldn't take you long to convince him otherwise. Lady Edith, I'm sure you remember how difficult he finds it to tell you 'no' regarding…most anything."

Edith smiled at his choice of words and his knowing look.

Stewart rose then. "Shall I go up to him, milady?"

Edith stood. "No, no, please don't disturb him. I'll…I'll be with him and I would like him to at least stay for breakfast; I imagine he'll be starved after last night's disaster. I'd like to talk with him, too, that is, if he'll stay."

"Very good, milady. You only need to call and I'll be glad to come back any time," Stewart said, turning to leave.

Edith walked him to the door. "Thank you, Stewart—for talking with me and…for how much you care for him."

Stewart opened the front door and turned back to her. "I know I'm not the only one, milady," he said, smiling before bowing slightly and walking away from her and down the street, whistling quietly to himself.

Edith watched Stewart for a moment and heard the clock chime in the parlor and the lateness of the morning suddenly occurred to her. She glanced down the street in the other direction to see Michael approaching, newspaper in hand, and her mind went blank. She shut the door and leaned against it, trying to compose herself, to think of a way to tell Michael that Anthony Strallan was upstairs in her bed… In that moment, Edith realized that both men were exactly where she wanted them…one at a distance as she'd perpetually kept him—unattainable anyway and outside of her in every respect—and the other so intimately connected, so deeply a part of her that the notion of him leaving her yet again or the idea of her letting him go became unfathomable…

Michael's footsteps right outside startled her back into the present and she opened the door before he could knock…

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for the kind reviews and follows and favorites! Thank you for reading and please do let me know what you think...


	4. Chapter 4

"Well!" Michael said, lowering his hand, as Edith surprised him at the door. "Good morning to you—expecting me, were you, darling?" He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

She backed away from him then, closing the door and making as little noise as possible. "Morning," she said, quietly leading him to the table.

Michael smiled and mocked her, uncertain as to the game she was playing. "Why are you whispering?" He reached for her, trying to pull her close, but she stayed just ahead of him before turning on him.

"Anthony Strallan…" She began and then thought better of it. "Michael, I need some time for this project," she said.

His eyes narrowed, gauging her expression. "Of course you'll have time—"

Mrs. Chambliss appeared then from the kitchen, her purse and coat in hand. "Ah, Mrs. Chambliss—morning errands?" Edith asked.

Michael smiled at the cook and housekeeper, but Mrs. Chambliss only offered him a half-smile and a glare. "Yes, milady, and there's plenty of breakfast warming in there should _anyone _be hungry." Mrs. Chambliss nodded at Edith. "Be back in a bit with necessities," she explained, quietly making her way out the front door.

"Michael, I mean I'd like to devote some serious—exclusive—time to this…" Edith said, turning to the coffee pot and pouring herself another cup. She took a seat and Michael did as well, sliding the chair closer to her.

"Edith, what happened after I left you with Stewart in the lobby last night? Did you see Strallan?"

Edith put her hand on the table, her smile tight. "Michael, I do wish you'd either refer to him with his title or his rank—but not just his last name…there's something about it when you do it that bothers me, perhaps because it is inappropriate and he deserves better."

Michael huffed. "Edith, I'm sorry. I didn't realize—the man did leave you at the altar if you recall—does he deserve respect for that?"

"And you're married and trying to court me! Is that any better? I should think it worse—on both our parts…" Edith countered, surprising him with the harshness of her tone.

He sat, speechless.

"You gave this to me and I intend to do my best with it, but I need some time and space—away from the office…and you." Edith looked up at him then, eyes unwavering.

Michael studied her. "So you're pushing me away to chase him using this project—"

"I'm not chasing him," Edith interrupted. "I'm working and, possibly, helping him."

"And if he doesn't need your help?" Michael tilted his head, waiting, all the charm she ever saw in him evaporating before her eyes.

Edith sipped her coffee and looked at him. "You're jealous, Michael."

He retreated then, knowing if he continued he would lose her completely. "I'm sorry, darling. I am jealous; he seems to have a hold on you and I can't understand why that would be after everything that's happened—the hurt he put you through after he _jilted _you." As quickly as it rose, his voice softened. "I don't want you to be hurt, that's all. I'll give you the time you need, away from the office and me—if that's what you wish. I'll help, of course, in any way I can. You need only ask, as always. And…Edith, I hope you know that I'm letting you do this because—" He reached for her face, his fingers lifting her chin to look at him. "Because Edith, I love you so much. Please don't forget that while you're pursuing this _project_, please darling."

Edith's eyes fell away then, even as his fingers tried to force her to see him, the finality to their situation evident to her alone. She couldn't bear to see Michael's faith continue in vain. "Thank you," she whispered.

Michael flinched at the dismissal rather than the reciprocation he desperately wanted. He stood. "I'll leave you now and breakfast on my way to the office. Telephone me soon? Keep me aware of your progress?"

Edith only held her coffee cup with both hands, taking another slow sip, and nodded.

As soon as she heard him close the door to her flat, Edith put the cup down, went to the stairs to grab Anthony's bag Stewart had brought, and hurried up to her room. She gently opened the door and saw Anthony still sleeping in her bed. She placed his bag by the door, and then moved closer, dodging the boards in the floor she knew would creak, and sat on the opposite side of the bed by the pillow next to his. He was still on his back, but his head was now to his left side, with the blankets pushed off and settled near his waist, just covering his right forearm; his left arm had drifted up to curve around his profile on the pillow. She watched him, knowing how overwhelmed from distress and exhaustion he must have been after last night. Edith thought then how remarkable it was to see him like this: how much younger he seemed as he slept, completely calm with his hair mussed on the pillow and his features so relaxed, his breathing deep. She saw no evidence at all of nightmares or disturbed sleep…and she had hope wondering if it might be because he sensed her close by, had known somehow that she held him through the night…

Edith smoothed the covers with her hand and then saw him move. She froze, waiting. Anthony lifted his head, looked at the door and the bed and glanced around the unfamiliar room for a moment. He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. Anthony suddenly felt her weight shifting beside him on the bed and turned, realizing he wasn't alone. She smiled at him, blushing and shy, and quietly said, "Good morning."

Startled, he grabbed the covers, pulling them close to conceal himself. "Morning," he said, bewildered. "How did I…what happened?"

"You were in the rain—last night. It was pouring and I was up late…working…and when the storm became worse I happened to look outside…you were there—on the bench. You almost froze to death…"

Anthony, still shocked at his situation, stared at the fireplace. "You brought me here on your own?"

"Mrs. Chambliss, my cook, she helped a bit—but she didn't…she didn't see you," Edith whispered. "I had to get your uniform off. You were soaked, but she wasn't here when I—"

"Thank you…for your discretion," he said, looking at her for a moment. "I shouldn't be here. I'm sorry to have disturbed—" He put his feet on the floor and then looked around for his clothes.

"Stewart was here earlier," she said, quickly rising to retrieve his bag. She picked it up and turned to face him, now sitting up on the side of the bed and he reached, twisting to pull more of the sheet to cover his arm again. Edith stopped him.

"You don't have to hide from me…I know you've been through so much."

Anthony glanced up, a confused expression, and then he felt a stinging in his eyes. "May I," his voice broke. "May I…have my clothes, please? I didn't mean to inconvenience—"

She put the bag down by his feet and then leaned close to him, touching his cheek with her hand. He flinched for a moment, but didn't move away. "Anthony, it's not an inconvenience. I…well, I wanted us to talk. Will you stay just for a while to talk with me? Mrs. Chambliss already made some breakfast and coffee for you downstairs. I know you must be hungry… Please, stay with me?"

He stared at the grain of wood in the floor and nodded.

Edith, relieved and full of hope that he would stay, paused. Tenderly, she touched his shoulder and said, "Would you like me to help you?"

Anthony still wouldn't look at her, afraid, feeling so much he couldn't name. "If you could just open the bag for me, please, and give me five minutes? I'll let you know if I…need you."

"Of course, yes. And the bathroom adjoins—just through there." Edith gestured, but he didn't look up.

Anthony remained still until Edith moved away from him, closing the door behind her. Edith walked to the top of the stairs and grasped the rail, and then turned to look at the door trying to imagine what he must be thinking as he dressed himself, as he faced where he was and what he might say to her. She closed her eyes and swallowed painfully. In her mind, she'd already composed reasons for him to stay—but the reality was that she knew he still might resist; even if he agreed this morning to help her, he might still abandon her as he had before. She hurried downstairs and poured him a cup of coffee and prepared a small plate of eggs and bacon. Uncertain, then, she waited at the bottom of the stairs estimating her time before she tentatively approached him—the door still closed.

Edith knocked lightly before opening it. "Anthony?"

He turned then from the standing mirror in the far corner of the room to face her. His trousers and boots were on, but he'd only managed two of the buttons on his shirt. "The buttons are usually not this much trouble," he muttered.

"Let me," she offered, crossing the room.

Anthony's good hand still fumbled with one of the buttons, refusing to give up, until she took his hand for a moment to stop him and noticed he was trembling.

"It's all right," she said. "Let me." As she quickly finished buttoning the shirt, Edith noticed they were both holding their breath. She looked up and Anthony's eyes were closed as though he were shutting her out, or in pain, or was there something else? She let her hands linger on his shirt, his chest warm through the soft cotton. Seeing that he'd collected his sling from where it was hung to dry by the fire the night before, she grabbed it and carefully put it around his neck and shoulder. Without a word, Edith took his arm and placed it in the sling. "All done," she whispered. His eyes opened, and the pained look of embarrassment she saw broke her heart. "Anthony, please don't worry, you know I…" But she chose not to go further, afraid of her own admission of how much she loved being close to him, touching him—afraid of scaring him away. "I've got breakfast on the table. Come downstairs," she smiled, stopping herself from reaching for his hand.

The two of them sat across from one another, eating silently for a few minutes, sipping coffee, barely making eye contact. When Anthony finished, Edith took his plate and silverware, and warmed his coffee with what was left from the pot.

"Thank you," he said.

Edith smiled, "Well, I know she's not quite as skilled at delicious cooking as Mrs. Brandon, but she's very kind and takes care of things around here for me."

Anthony finally smiled. "Mrs. Brandon is…unique. But what I meant to say was thank you for…taking care of me last night—and Mrs. Chambliss, is it? Thank you both."

"You're quite welcome." Edith finished her coffee. "Anthony, about last night…"

He moved to slide his chair back and stand, but Edith caught his hand on the edge of the table—clasping it for a moment with everything she had and he looked at her then, direct, his blue eyes clear and entranced by her. She knew she couldn't let him leave.

"Anthony, please. I have a proposal of sorts for you—please hear me out."

He waited, but he was staring at the table in front of him.

Edith pushed forward then, "May I just talk with you about what's in the file—with no sort of obligation or sense of intrusion?" She moved to the edge of her chair then, forcing herself in between him and the table he was still holding onto and she took his hand in hers. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. I'm not going to embarrass you or destroy your sense of…honor or anything like that to harm you—I don't even want to write it at all if it's going to hurt you—do you—"

Anthony shook his head then, gazing at his hand in hers, surrendering. "I want you to write it," he said, his voice low.

Edith sat up straight as though recoiling from the shock. "You…you do?"

Anthony nodded. "I want to help you—your career…I will explain what I can and help you in whatever way you wish, but I only ask that my name not be used, please. I don't want to in any way be known for this or attached to it—war is terrible and this…project…it will be terrible, too. I want no attention or profit or recognition; there's nothing heroic here, so please, I ask that you leave my name out." He looked at her and she was agape. He gave her a half-smile, a look of submission. "Is that all right?"

Edith nodded emphatically and finally found her voice. "Yes, yes, of course. I had already mentioned that idea—" She caught herself, not wanting to give away her earlier conversation with Stewart. Edith looked away then, covering her smile with her other hand, a warm feeling filling her knowing that the two of them had in fact settled on the exact notion separately…and now together…

"I have one other condition," Anthony said, and she looked back into his eyes, now watching her intently. "I…when I saw you last night," he began, his voice cracking. "I'm so sorry I hurt you as I did—in such a way. I'm so sorry and I only ask your forgiveness for it. I hope you see now that it was for the best. You clearly have a new life and career and have moved on and—" He stopped and saw the look in her eyes, the anguish. He pressed forward, ignoring the splintering in his chest. "Can you forgive me, Edith, please?" Edith looked down, unable to hide her tears. Anthony continued, speaking quickly, believing her tears were only for the past, unaware of how she held him the previous night and of her near-confession just that morning as he slept. "The condition is this: I do not wish to interfere with your new life at all, so please keep me out of your…well, out of your personal life in every possible way except for this…terrible war story business—this is a professional endeavor to help you, yes? I only ask that you keep your social engagements, your other obligations with friends or…others who may require your attentions," he said, unable to use a term for courtship or confront his own jealousy. "I'm certainly not worth disrupting your new life," he finished, trying to smile but only managing to frown in a diffident manner.

Edith looked up at him, completely open to him and yet so hurt, but willing herself to agree because she knew the consequences if she didn't-even as she wiped her eyes. "Of course, yes, I accept then," she lied.

Anthony nodded, exhaling in relief, even as a brief shadow marked his features. "Good, then, we're settled on it. Very good," he lied.


	5. Chapter 5

"Yes, that should be fine and give me plenty of time to make the luncheon. Thank you, Stewart," Anthony concluded the arrangement on the telephone and then took the file Edith handed to him. "He'll be here in just a bit."

"Of course, that's fine. Just through here and we'll sit down," she said, leading him.

The two moved to the front parlor of the flat. "What I want to do is a…portrait—a written portrait—a full, unflinching view of what the war has done and who you were before…and you now…after it all happened," Edith said, watching him, her fingers fidgeting in her lap.

Anthony sat, silent, unshaven and hair barely tamed with only his hand threading it occasionally as he sat, nervously turning the pages. Edith observed him carefully, searching for any sign of distress or disconnection from her and the circumstance like what had occurred the previous night: his eyes flickering over the print files, examining the photographs with his finger lightly touching the images, and then staring out the window, lost, squinting against the glare of the morning light reflecting off the rain pools on the pavement and through the panes. When he came to the last page, he closed the folder.

"Not all of it is here," he said, placing the folder beside him on the sofa.

Edith sat in the chair near the window, and smiled, "Yes, I thought it was incomplete—that there might be…gaps."

The silence in the room was heavy; Anthony avoided her eyes, reluctant and uncertain.

Edith stood, picked up the file, and sat down by him. "Anthony, how about if we start at the beginning—just easy questions…until we become more comfortable."

Anthony glanced at her. "Easy questions—all right. But, Edith, I'm afraid this won't…can't be comfortable to talk about—it is war, after all—"

"It's not just war, it's about you and—" The front door opened before Edith finished. "Mrs. Chambliss—hello."

Edith met the older woman at the door, helping her with the two bags about to fall, and Anthony stood and hurried to her taking Mrs. Chambliss' elbow when she almost lost her footing at the door step.

"Oh! My goodness—it was a bit heavier than I thought and I couldn't see well at all!" Mrs. Chambliss exclaimed, looking up at Anthony, a broad smile on her face now that she had established her footing. "But I can now… thank you, Sir—thank you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Chambliss, for your kindness last night…and for breakfast, too, of course," Anthony said, looking down at her.

She took a deep breath and turned to Edith, her eyes wide, and then quickly turned back to stare at Anthony. "You look much…better this morning, Sir," and then she grinned, "Much better, doesn't he, milady?"

Edith blushed, seeing the woman's obvious and rather immediate approval of Anthony even as he remained politely oblivious. "Yes, Mrs. Chambliss," Edith said, guiding her quickly away, "he is _feeling_ much better as well. Thank you again for your help."

As the two walked back and sat down beside one another, Anthony's conflicting feelings reared up again—the need to run and the stronger need to stay with her, to be near her. "Stewart will be here soon. We probably shouldn't get too far along here only to have to stop. I just—I do have an appointment this afternoon and, after last night, I…well, it's with the general and some other officers…I won't be free again until dinner and that's not part of—" His eyes shifted, anxious.

"Not part of our agreement, yes, I know," she finished for him. Edith blinked several times, clearing her vision, feeling defeated already. "Strictly business hours, so to speak—but Anthony, what if I told you I didn't have plans this evening? I don't. I am eager to get started and tonight seems—"

"No, no, I can't. I don't think it's a good idea at all. I've already inconvenienced you last night and this morning—embarrassed myself, really—"

"No, you didn't—"

"Edith, you had to practically save my life after my…ridiculous behavior—"

"Please, Anthony—it wasn't ridiculous. You just had a…reaction…is all—I know why last night happened and it's…well, it's over now, isn't it? Between the dinner and seeing each other again…for the first time, I mean?" Edith looked away, feeling the prick of tears. "It's done and now we're…together—on this project. Please." Seeing she hadn't convinced him, she gave him an option. "How about this for a beginning: one question now—a simple one…and, if you go to your appointment and when you return to your townhouse—I assume you're staying there—I can come by or telephone later and, if you're up to it, we can discuss more during dinner or after dinner?"

Anthony stared at her, his mouth open to form words, but hesitant to give her any affirmative answer—frightened by the prospect of a seemingly open invitation to her.

Edith took action, her pen in hand. "Please—one question. And," she smiled most persuasively, "I already have a perfectly happy, easy question for you to sort of get us started—break the ice." She sat down and Anthony felt compelled to listen, drawn to her infectious enthusiasm and he couldn't help but smile knowing he was perfectly enthralled by her.

"Yes, all right?" Anthony took a deep breath, watching her, wary as to what she might consider 'happy' or 'easy'…

"Yes, well, something I really think would offer a few brilliant brushstrokes, so to speak, to give some background—some insight into…well…you as a man—I wondered if you might tell me about a happy memory—the first you think of when you remember growing up. So, a happy memory—the first that comes to mind? That's all…" Edith recognized she was rambling, but she couldn't help herself and Anthony just looked at her with those startling blue eyes that at the moment proved difficult to read.

"All right then…" He considered the question for a moment, but the first memory that came upon him was not when he was a child, but practically a young man. "My family was in London. I was fourteen and on holiday from school. My father became ill—in bed with enough of a fever that my mother felt the need to cancel their evening," Anthony said, looking now at the floor, his fingers tapping lightly on his thigh and his voice soft with the distance of years. "My father wouldn't hear of it; he knew how much she adored concerts of any kind and insisted she attend. After hashing it out with him—sweetly, of course—because that's how they were together, she came downstairs and her eyes—I'll never forget the way she looked at me. I was only 14 and…she said, 'Anthony, my darling, your father is insistent, but I need a proper gentleman escort. Will you accompany me in his place?'" Anthony sat up straighter beside Edith and she saw his chest expand as he took a deep breath. "I'd never been so proud," he smiled, then.

As he spoke, Edith pictured a fourteen-year-old Anthony Strallan, tall and awkward in white-tie, his blonde hair fuller, and his manners as a gentleman less practiced, being honed to perfection by circumstances such as this one he was describing. She wrote quickly. Her pen moved on the paper and she looked up frequently to watch Anthony, to smile as he smiled.

"We dressed and she came down the stairs to meet me—my sister helping me, calming me down a bit as nervous as I was," he chuckled. "My mother, though, she looked so beautiful, elegant…a quite lovely red evening gown… She sort of fawned over me in my tie and my sister laughed—enjoyed seeing me blush. Then I held out my arm for her as I'd seen my father do countless times and we were off, chauffeured to the opera hall. Puccini. Before we walked in, she asked me about my handkerchief, made certain that it was perfectly folded in my coat and I remember wondering why it seemed to matter so much to her. I had no idea until we reached the most beautiful movement in the final scene and I looked at her," his voice breaking. "She was crying—not sobbing, but there were tears streaming down her face and I remembered the handkerchief and handed it to her. But it was the moment itself—I'd never seen her look so beautiful or passionate, so moved by the opera—the sheer power of it overwhelming her and I felt…privileged to see her like that…"

Edith had stopped writing some time before he finished and found herself staring at him, unable to take her eyes off of him.

"We returned home and I remember my father asking me later on about the evening and I didn't want to tell him about her tears; I felt somehow that it was a special moment that was private, a secret between us. But the way he asked and saw me pause—he knew how she was and why the concerts, the operas were so important to her and then he said, and I'll never forget this, he said, 'Anthony, marry a lady who cries like your mother does at the opera—you may not understand it—but marry a woman who feels so deeply and passionately because I know, like me, you will have found someone touched by life and beauty and love…a woman who knows what makes a life worth living, one who will be able to make you happy.'"

Anthony sat silent, his smile disappearing, his expression indicating he'd moved on to perhaps a different time, a different recollection. Edith waited, and then smiled at him—gentle, reassuring—as she asked, "Lady Strallan—Maud—she cried at operas, then, too?"

"No, she didn't…we attended a few, but…" Anthony lifted his gaze and stared at Edith.

"What is it?" she asked, nervous that something had upset him.

"Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all."

Edith, wrapped up in his story and her focus entirely on him, suddenly remembered that concert from so long ago: the new feeling of having him beside her, the scent of his shaving lotion, the feel of his coat and his arm as she held it and they walked together—the way he'd explained a few of the nuances to her while they listened to the performance—and the tender, discreet manner in which he passed his handkerchief to her when she failed to blink away the pooling tears in her eyes towards the end of the piece…the way he smiled at her then even as he continued to watch the performance in the low lights of the theatre…

"My God, Anthony, that night we—" Edith began, so moved by the moment she couldn't let it pass, but was interrupted by a knock on the door and Anthony immediately stood.

"That should be Stewart. I must go," he said, not turning towards her but starting to make his way back upstairs to retrieve his jacket and bag.

Edith reached for him. "Anthony—"

He stopped and she moved to stand in his way, almost at the foot of the stairs and by the door. When Edith's hand almost settled on his chest to stop him, he grasped it with his own before she touched him. His was warm, gentle, but firm. "Please, Edith—I need to go." Seeing her eyes, knowing she'd just met him back in 1914 in her memory, his smile was bittersweet.

"It was me—I was the one," she whispered, letting her fingers clasp his as he held her hand.

Anthony's smile faded slightly. "You always have been." He waited, cringing, inwardly chastising himself for being unable to stop the words from coming out of his mouth. She didn't move and watching her made him go weak. "I need to leave, please," he said, letting go of her hand and brushing by her to return upstairs.

Edith opened the door and saw Stewart smiling at her. "Milady?"

Edith tried to smile, but she was still stunned. Anthony's admission seemed to linger and yet disappear at once. "Stewart—so sorry. He's upstairs collecting his things."

"I will assist him, milady—thank you," Stewart said, stepping just inside. "If you wish to get in touch with him," he whispered.

She took the piece of paper with Anthony's townhouse number on it, walked across the room, and placed it with her other files. "Thank you," she called to him as he walked upstairs.

Within moments, Stewart was back and departing outside to the taxi car with Anthony's bag. Anthony was not far behind and Edith stood by the door to see him out. "Thank you," she said.

Anthony only nodded. "Thank you again—for all you did. I suppose I'll—"

"I'll see you soon," Edith promised.

He gave her a half-smile and nodded once more before stepping outside. Once in the taxi car, Stewart asked, "Everything all right, Sir?"

"Yes, Stewart, I think so," Anthony said. His eyes were on the pedestrians and houses they began to pass as the car proceeded on its way. Then, softly, he said, "Although, I think we may extend our stay here in London…"

Stewart's eyebrows rose. "Really, Sir? Additional business to be taken care of?"

"Lady Edith has asked for my…assistance on a writing endeavor. I want to help her any way I can."

"Of course, Sir."

"Oh, and I forgot. She may come by and I didn't give her the townhouse number or the—"

"Already taken care of, Sir," Stewart replied.

Anthony looked at his valet, who only smiled in return. "Thank you, Stewart. You…well, you seem to know me well enough to sort of read my mind at times. It's quite astonishing, really."

Stewart nodded. "I do try to anticipate what you may need, Sir. I always try."

* * *

Edith had closed the door behind him. She thought back to his words—the most important words from their morning spent talking together for the first time in years and realized they had nothing to do with the project whatsoever, but with the two of them together—"You always have been." Edith smiled, forgetting their agreement and conditions, refusing to rein in her optimism and only believing in the possibilities. "'You always have been,'" she said aloud, relishing his outright confession. "And will always be, Anthony Strallan, because I am not giving up…"

* * *

A/N: *For a beautiful rendering of the entire opera scene, you should read Genevievey's "That Old Familiar Feeling." I have not even aimed for that here because her prologue with that scene (and the entire story) is already so perfectly done; I simply settled for a brief pang of remembrance instead as the revelation from Anthony's memory of his parents-and his father's advice-dawns on Edith.

I hope you're enjoying it thus far. Thank you so much for reading...please let me know what you think...


	6. Chapter 6

Anthony Strallan tried to concentrate on the surrounding conversation, the loud guffaws of the men at his table, the retellings of war stories—the somber moments interrupted with dry humor to keep the mood congenial. He really did try to listen with honest effort, but the re-emergence of Edith Crawley into his life, the memory of waking in her room, her touch as she helped him dress, her nearness after so long apart…

"Right, Major? Very nearly!"

Caught unawares by the round of laughter and the clap on his left shoulder, Anthony only nodded, smiling in agreement at whatever Colonel Norton said in his gravelly baritone that carried across the entire restaurant. Anthony continued smiling, polite in his excuses as he hastily stood to step out for fresh air. As he paced just outside the restaurant, the wind nipping at his now-standing jacket collar, their words haunted him… 

_"__It was me—I was the one." _

_"__You always have been."_

"A dreadful mistake," Anthony chided himself, turning towards the wind, shutting his eyes to the brightness of the sun. The words and the expression on Edith's face wouldn't abandon him and even as he shut his eyes, she was there. In the quiet of that moment, he opened his eyes to the gleam of the sunlight knowing he still loved her and that he would do anything for her—even if it killed him. The photographs of himself from her file flashed to his mind then and he heard the screams of war surround him for a moment before he muted them and forced his senses to attend to his present rather than the past—regaining hard-fought control he needed to maintain…but the taste in the back of his throat, the tremors of his left hand as he tucked it in his pocket reminded him of his vulnerabilities…of the precipice of sanity he'd battled upon returning. Anthony knew Edith couldn't conceive of what she was asking him to do—how could she? He'd protected her—shielded her from the realities—during the engagement, and it had been relatively easy given how little time they'd spent alone together. Now, in helping her, he'd agreed to return to that precipice. Alone. No doctors to preside or caution or counsel. No kind nurses to comfort him in the isolated ward within the hospital. Only Edith. Yes, she'd helped him last night, but she hadn't seen the nightmares—hadn't seen him completely lose his grip on reality or peered into his eyes when he was terror-stricken by the loud clap of a distant sound or the unsettling sight of an eerily familiar enemy still out there… Remembering his return and treatment during 1917-18, Anthony closed his eyes once more. He almost died. Edith saw the photograph from the rescue, but—like all images—the majority of the story wasn't captured in that picture. The suffering he endured in the name of war was there in the print of his damaged body; the anguish that ensued in the name of treatment, however, wasn't at all evident: morphine, sleep medication to "calm" him, endless terrors he couldn't wake from, the torture he couldn't explain to anyone—even the doctors pleading to help him, but uncertain as to how—because he couldn't describe or give voice to what had occurred, couldn't believe it had even happened to him—the pain that no one could see because even as he healed physically, as the bruises disappeared and the bones mended and his shoulder and side scarred and became numb—the imperceptible trauma buried within and relived each day and night for weeks and months afterwards in his memory with no way out nearly killed him. To purposely remember and recount, to delve even further and find the words to share what happened…how far would he—could he—let himself go…for Edith? Anthony sighed. He already knew his answer…

* * *

Edith finished her cup of tea and typed up her notes from the talk with Anthony that morning. The memory he told her about his mother and her subsequent connection to their concert date nearly brought tears to her eyes again as she pressed the keys. She stopped.

_"__You always have been."_

Edith saw the phrase in the middle of her typed notes. "What?" She'd heard his words repeated in her mind since he left just three hours before and now, on the paper in her typewriter, she saw them in black and white on the page. She couldn't help but smile. The clock chimed and she realized how late in the afternoon it had become. Glancing at the type, hearing his voice again, Edith made up her mind. Letting him alone to worry and second-guess and regret couldn't happen. She had to see him tonight; she couldn't let him back out of the project or she'd lose him…

* * *

"Lady Edith Crawley," Stewart announced.

Anthony looked up from his writings at his desk in the library. "Of course, Stewart. Show her in, please." Nervous, Anthony dropped his pen, straightened his tie, and stood to greet her.

"Hello."

"Hello, come in, please."

He gestured for her to sit in the chair nearest the fireplace and he sat across from her. Edith smiled and took out her notebook and pen. "I wasn't sure you'd see me."

"Yes, well…it worked out for this evening, I suppose."

"How was your luncheon?"

"Fine—good to see everyone."

"Good. Anthony, to give me a time-frame and for us to work out a schedule, I was wondering when you're leaving for Yorkshire— after the festivities of this week, I assume? If so, then we need—"

Anthony shook his head. "No, actually. I've arranged to stay until…well, as long as you need me."

"Oh. Thank you, Anthony. I didn't mean to disrupt your plans—"

"Not at all. I'm glad to help."

Edith glanced down at the questions on her notebook. "Let's get started then and the sooner you can return to Locksley."

"Edith, I have some writings you will probably want, but they're at Locksley. You're welcome to them there, perhaps if you're staying at Downton soon you can come by? Or I could send them to you here—"

"I don't stay at Downton, Anthony, not if I can help it. My family disapproves of most everything…I try to avoid them; they're not exactly proud of me or my work."

Anthony frowned, his features shadowed by the light of the fire on his right side. "I'm sorry. I had hoped things had improved with your family, not worsened. I'm not fond of the idea of you staying there only to be mistreated and the Grantham Inn is not suitable—not given the circumstances because your family will most certainly find out, I'm sure, and that would cause conflict, yes?"

Edith nodded.

"Perhaps a brief stay at Locksley for your research would meet your needs—when it's time, that is, we can prepare a guest room for you and any other material items you might require for this work—a typewriter, that sort of thing." The proposal he presented sounded, at first, like the solution to a legal problem rather than an invitation to share his space, his life, if only for a few days. But Edith knew him, heard the subtle change in his tone and observed the softening of his features. A victory: Anthony Strallan wanted her there with him.

"Well, yes, thank you. I'd appreciate that opportunity; I don't trust your journals to the post service and I'd hate to alert my family to…the work I'm doing, especially regarding you. I've agreed to keep your secret, after all."

"Thank you, Edith. We'll plan the details then when you're ready."

Edith swallowed, stared at her notes in her lap, and blushed—the idea of her at Locksley with him, undisturbed, alone…she was more than ready right then, but she merely looked up at him again and smiled. "Shall we start then? I really just want to hear more of your childhood, your studies, that sort of thing. We can go in a chronological sort of order, if you like, and that way we're just easing into the…more difficult, recent parts."

Anthony began by sharing a few anecdotes from his earliest memories of childhood—his mother's adoration and patience, his father's lessons in becoming a competent man and gentleman, his sister's constant ploys in tricking her younger brother during their games at Locksley. Some of the stories Edith recognized from their time together years ago, but she conscientiously copied the details down now as he recalled them for her and elaborated as she asked more questions.

Stewart arrived and provided them with coffee and the easy discussion continued. Anthony and Edith found themselves in a comfortable place—talking together, sharing likes and dislikes, discussing his studies and love of literature, science, and languages, his appreciation of mathematics and logic and law. Several times during the course of the conversation, they laughed together only to catch themselves gazing at one another in awe…realizing all that had passed between them and how subtle that certain, intangible something was that remained just there, out of reach…waiting for acknowledgement of how utterly right for one another they were…

The hours passed, unnoticed by the two of them until they yawned almost simultaneously and noticed the time—after midnight.

"I'm so sorry—I didn't mean to keep you so late."

"Anthony, it's not a problem. I only live a few streets over."

"Yes, yes. I'm aware. Stewart's probably—"

"Asleep. It's all right. I can hail a taxi car."

"Absolutely not," Anthony insisted. "I'll accompany you. I wouldn't want you out by yourself at this late hour."

Anthony helped Edith with her coat, and then slipped his on with her assistance, and grabbed his hat. As they stepped out into the night, the chilly wind hit them and both leaned into each other; Edith slipped her arm into his. He looked down at her. In the light of the streetlamp, smiling despite the cold, Edith's cheeks flushed.

"You look—" He stopped.

"What is it?"

"Nothing…just…you look quite cold. We should hurry to get a car."

Edith leaned closer to him, stopping him. "Thank you for tonight. I know you were reluctant to see me tonight, but you should know how much I appreciated talking with you—I enjoyed our chat. It reminded me of…of how we used to talk."

Anthony pulled away from her, distancing himself, his smile polite, but apologetic. "Best to return you home quickly. Mrs. Chambliss will wonder where you are…"

"No, she won't, Anthony."

"Why—what do you mean?"

"She rather likes you—and she knows I'm working here, so she knows I'm perfectly safe." Edith watched him, saw the uncertainty and his dismissal of the compliment as he turned towards the street. After several minutes, Edith offered, "It seems there aren't many cars out right now. Perhaps we could walk?"

"You're sure you won't be too cold?"

Edith laughed. "I'm sure I will be, but I'm afraid I might freeze to death just standing here waiting. Besides, these are the safest streets in the city."

Anthony looked worried, but then he smiled. "Yes, all right."

As they walked along the lamp-lighted streets, Edith slipped her arm back into the crook of his left, and silence fell between them. They covered the streets in a short time given the nighttime temperature urging them to move faster. Edith walked at a brisk pace and Anthony knew she must be cold, as he saw her breaths in the air and thought her teeth were beginning to chatter as well. When they finally reached her flat, she ushered them both inside and offered him a cup of tea. He declined.

"Do you have appointments tomorrow?"

"No, I don't. I'm free when you are ready to continue."

Edith grinned, "Breakfast then?"

"That's only a few hours from now—don't you want a break?"

"No. I think we're on the right path and I hate to let up now."

Anthony reached for the door. "I'll see you later this morning then."

"Eight o'clock—here."

"All right."

They met for breakfast and he stayed for lunch, much to Edith's and Mrs. Chambliss' delight, but he showed little appetite. Edith encouraged Anthony to talk about even the most mundane experiences and assured him that any of it might be helpful to her in the writing process. He shared everything he could think of, to the point that he thought he must be boring her—but then he would look at her, see her smile and her eyes glisten and he knew there was nothing dull happening between them in that room. When he felt that particular danger creeping in—the intimacy—he would quiet, wait for her next formal question and then begin again, treading lightly until the next barrier between them vanished without either realizing until it was too late…Anthony feeling the twinge in his chest and attempting to put up yet another boundary to keep his distance. And so the interviews continued...

Late on the second afternoon in Edith's flat, the talking ceased when Anthony came to the loss of his parents, and as he sat quietly. Edith reached and held his hand and saw the tears in his eyes. Edith cherished the intimacy, felt the love and respect he had for them in that moment they shared. Both recognized his need for a break and he excused himself to meet with her and continue the following day.

Pleased with her progress, Edith called Michael and remained taciturn. She informed him about her interviews with Anthony and indicated tomorrow would be a bit of a break, a pleasant luncheon, before they continued forward into the most crucial events over the course of the next days and possibly weeks—conveniently leaving Locksley and Anthony's invitation to her out of the conversation. Michael encouraged her to continue her work, asked a couple of details about the information and the luncheon the next day, and Edith was relieved when he seemed helpful rather than jealous. They politely disconnected and Edith prepared for the next day.

In Anthony's absences during the evenings, Edith worked furiously typing up notes, jotting down questions or dates or comments that needed clarification, and drafting initial chapters. She was single-minded in her pursuit and there was only one reason behind the passion and effort she was putting forth: Anthony Strallan. Time was becoming more important and she knew they were about to enter the most volatile territory—his marriage to Maud, the losses, the war... While she knew the basics of what had occurred in his life, she'd never heard them explained fully or spoken of in detail by Anthony. Edith dreaded the discomfort and pain that she knew would come, but she desperately wanted to help him face it. Trust and the past familiarity had settled between them and that gave her confidence. Locksley and her stay there loomed ahead for the two of them…Edith knew she was close…

* * *

Stewart heard a noise and slipped his robe on, hurrying towards the library. The only light in the library came from the fire and the small lamp on Anthony's desk.

"Sir—is everything all right?"

Anthony turned, startled. "Yes, yes, Stewart. I apologize for waking you. I only meant to stoke the fire a bit and ward off the chill, but the andiron slipped."

Stewart saw Anthony's hand, a pen at paper, trembling, and a brandy glass nearby. "Can I get you anything, Sir?"

"No, no, I was just…" He looked at Stewart, and even in the shadows of the room, Anthony's distress was evident. "I needed to write down a few things—for Edith—_Lady_ Edith…and I couldn't sleep."

"May I help you with any of it, Sir? Write for you or…get something to help you sleep—"

"No, no! The nightmares—" Anthony stopped, knowing he'd admitted too much. "I'm fine, Stewart, really. Please—go back to sleep. I'm so sorry again to have disturbed you. I'll retire in a bit."

Stewart nodded, reluctant to leave, but gently closed the door behind him.

Anthony returned his attention to the paper, but set the pen down as the quivering of his hand intensified. He ignored the dates and records in front of him, the ones Edith wished for him to see before their next meeting; she had tucked the paper in his coat pocket for him as he left that afternoon. The two of them had been working in such close proximity that he could still feel her by him, her scent on his sleeve as they had looked at the same papers whilst sitting together and talking. _A different form of torture_, Anthony thought, before his mind flashed to the conversation and his invitation to her to Locksley-_God help me_. Holding the paper now, Anthony stared not at the information she mentioned, but at the last words he'd written, taunted himself with, at the bottom of the now-wilted paper—just to see, again, how the words looked two years after he'd thrown away the life they had desperately wanted together…_Lady Edith Strallan…_


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: A warning for flashback/nightmare and violent content for this chapter.

* * *

Edith dropped her first article—the introduction piece about Anthony—on Michael's desk, but he was out, and she arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early thinking she'd be situated before Anthony arrived; upon entering, however, she immediately saw he was waiting for her at a quiet table in the back corner of the dining room.

"Anthony Strallan, it seems you are never late!" Edith's smile gave no sign of aggravation, only extreme pleasure at the sight of him: clean-shaven, perfectly combed blonde hair and— she was certain he should remember—her favorite charcoal tweed jacket.

He stood, gentlemanly courtesy, but she used it to her advantage to reach out to him in greeting and met him with a kiss on the cheek and a lingering touch along his arm. Edith grinned while she arranged her coat and then sat across from him at the small bistro; if she thought he was handsome before, then with the slight smile and coloring after her kiss he was irresistible. "Not having been here before, I was simply taking precautions to ensure I didn't keep you waiting," he explained.

Edith waved her hand. "Not at all—I'm glad you're early. We'll have that much more time together." Seeing the momentary trepidation in his expression, Edith focused on the menu.

Within minutes, they ordered and Edith fired away with observations about recent novels and the publishing world, trying to help Anthony relax. As handsome as he appeared, she noticed the fidgeting with his napkin, the constant glances to others around the room, as though anxiously expecting something…or someone—and the darkness beneath his blue eyes that gave away how little he was sleeping.

Edith pushed forward, though, continuing the conversation as they ate, until Edith saw Anthony startled and she felt a hand at her cheek and then a kiss. "Michael!"

Anthony's brow creased, and the cold shock was evident. The intimacy in the greeting caused him to sit back in his chair and look away and then down at his plate.

Edith turned to Anthony and she grimaced when she recognized what he must be thinking after Michael's display.

"Anthony, please don't—"

"Yes, of course, Major Strallan—so wonderful to make your acquaintance finally! I'm Michael Gregson, Edith's…well, not just, but certainly in title, I'm her editor at _The Sketch_," Michael exclaimed, reaching across the table to shake Anthony's hand.

Anthony looked to him, to Michael's right hand suspended in front of him, and waited until Michael realized his mistake, noticed the black sling, and offered his left instead. Anthony hesitated and then shook it politely. During the exchange, Anthony hadn't seen Edith—had failed to see her complete embarrassment, her red face, her growing rage at Michael's interference, and he certainly didn't hear it in her voice because his mind had already drifted. This moment confirmed Anthony's best and worst imaginings as he confronted the reality he convinced himself that he wanted for her: a younger, able-bodied man, competent, aware of her intellect and talents, and clearly taken with her in the affection he'd just witnessed.

"What are you doing here, Michael?" Edith asked, flustered.

"Just passing through, darling, making contact with a potential new columnist from our rival—a secret deal—you know how it is," he paused, and winked at Edith and Anthony conspiratorially, "and thought I'd find you here."

Anthony laid his napkin on the table and stood. "Thank you, Lady Edith, for the invitation to luncheon. I really must be going."

"No, no," Michael interjected. "Please stay—"

"Yes, please, Anthony—I'm sure Michael was just headed back to the office," Edith implored, standing beside Michael, her eyebrows rising as Michael continued smiling at her in return, shaking his head, and wrapping his arm around her.

He turned his attention back to Anthony, holding his hand out to stop Anthony's departure. "Major, please. This special project of Edith's is quite important and I really am pleased to meet you. I know she's working on chapters, but the first column—excerpt, if you will—is going to appear tomorrow, right?" He asked and Edith affirmed. "We're quite excited at _The Sketch_ to see the impact your story will have—particularly on the treatment of those soldiers who've been…troubled. Will you please, as a professional courtesy and a personal invitation, join us—just a few of our other work friends—tonight for dinner?"

Edith looked from Michael to Anthony, taken aback by the invitation. "Michael, I don't know what you mean—I told you this was going to be kept—"

"Edith, darling, they keep secrets, too," he whispered, his tone bordering mockery, but remaining just gentle enough to sound genuine. "This isn't going to be a public announcement." He smiled at Anthony. "It's only a dinner, please. It's the least we can do given the work you're doing…with Edith."

Anthony remained speechless, unable to look at Edith, the tightening in his chest causing his breaths to become shallow. He paled. "I'm sorry, I can't." His eyes finally met hers and he saw pain—was it his rejection of this man? Was she upset with him for declining?

"No, please, say yes. I beg you," Michael tilted his head, turned on the charm Edith was quite familiar with and she felt her stomach turn. Uncertain as to the dinner that evening and Michael's plans for her important project, and unable to cause a scene in the restaurant to potentially embarrass Anthony further, Edith bided her time and waited—knowing with each passing second she was losing him to assumptions and Michael's possessive ploy.

Anthony stared at Edith's strained and hurt expression—tears? He couldn't be sure, save of the feeling of her disappointment in him for the refusal. "My apologies. If you wish, then, yes—I'll attend."

"Marvelous!" Michael squeezed Edith's shoulder a bit tighter and then relinquished his hold, taking a notepad and pen from his pocket. "Here's the address—a new dinner club with wonderful food and cocktails and a jazz group that'll amaze you—8pm tonight, all right?"

"Yes, I'll be there."

Edith watched Anthony leave—after paying their bill—and snatched her arm from Michael's grip. "What's going on?"

"Edith—"

"What is it, Michael? What's this dinner?"

Michael took her glass from the table and sipped the last bit of wine before the table was cleared. "Mmm. Darling, I have made an appointment with some publisher contacts—friends of mine who are…curious about what you're up to and want to meet the quite-shy-but-intriguing Major Strallan. Make certain of him, his commitment, so to speak, before investing—possibly publishing your work. This is quite significant for you, my dear. I would've called on you earlier, but you requested distance and I've been setting it up since our telephone conversation yesterday. Please don't be upset and forgive me for looking out for your career."

Was it elation that Michael was assisting her career instead of wallowing in jealousy? Gratitude to him for his touting of her work? No, she was stunned and coming apart inside as she reeled from the idea of dinner, of Anthony being exposed in this way to others in the business, and a crushing inside at the way Anthony appeared defeated and appeased her by accepting the invitation—she knew it. Michael embraced her, but she pushed away from him. "But Anthony's not comfortable—"

"With dinner? I'm sure he'll be fine, love. The whole affair will be fine and it'll be fabulous for your career to see this published," Michael assured her.

* * *

When Anthony returned to his town house, his insides churning from the lunch and the encounter with Michael, he disappeared into the library. He swallowed brandy—more than he'd consumed in years—until he couldn't stand it and stared at the paper from his desk. Taking his pen, staring at the words…_Lady Edith Strallan_…Anthony struck through them with one decisive stroke and took a final, stinging drink before collapsing in front of the fire, gazing into it for over an hour until he fell into a restless asleep.

_"I admire you…Major," he whispered, and then Anthony felt the blade, the tip just under his ribs, and he looked into the opposing officer's eyes. "You'll be alive long enough to hear them coming for you, but I'm afraid it will be too late…" _

_A swift movement and Anthony's hands were cut free from behind his back; he felt the weight of his right arm hang at his side, and he tried to suppress the shriek of anguish that escaped momentarily as the wound reopened. Anthony looked to the markings on his left wrist and then turned back to the officer—confusion and pain etched on his face—in time to see the officer's empty expression as Anthony felt the blade plunged into his side only to be withdrawn just as suddenly. The two men who'd been holding Anthony from behind watched him fall to his knees in front of the officer, his left hand reaching for the stab wound, until the officer put his boot on Anthony's right shoulder directly into the damaged joint, kicking him backwards to lie staring at the ceiling. Time began to swim as life drained from his broken body, and the ceiling above closed in on him, his mind slipping into unconsciousness… A loud clap of noise, but then his parents…his sister calling to him…Maud's face—her sad, serene smile…a myriad of voices cutting through the shadows…soft breaths from his infant son as he slipped from the earth…a strong grip on his arm and urgent yelling in his ear, but distant still as it echoed…Edith beside him on a drive—her hand on his chest, and then her voice, "No! You have to stay—"…his legs became weightless, an explosion jarring him…Captain Harmon's face, Simmons' hand reaching for him…and then he was gone…_

Anthony flinched and woke in alarm, a cold sweat, his body shivering in the chair. The same nightmare—the memory from just before he was rescued. The betrayal by one of his own partners that led to being shot, being captured… Anthony focused on the luncheon with Edith, the surprise meeting of Michael, and remembered his dinner appointment. He shut his eyes. His body calmed. He rang for Stewart and let him know his plans and the two made their way up to his room so Anthony could change.

"Are you all right, Sir?" Stewart asked. He'd noticed Anthony's odd behavior when he returned from luncheon, but hadn't bothered him, had chosen to wait and see what came of it.

Anthony shook his head. "I met Edi—Lady Edith's editor today and he's the one who has invited me to this dinner…they seem to be…happy together."

Stewart raised one eyebrow.

Anthony only nodded in the mirror, but then Stewart's expression registered. "What is it? Do you know him?"

"I met him at the General's dinner, Sir."

"And? Was there something else, Stewart?"

Stewart shook his head, "Nothing in particular, Sir, no. Did you—like him when you met him today?"

For the first time, Anthony considered the exchange: Michael's appearance, his tone, and Edith's utter silence during the majority of the meeting between the two of them, and something about Michael. Anthony disregarded it, still feeling the lingering effects from the brandy and the nightmare he had just awakened from… "I hate to judge someone based on an initial meeting, but I suppose there might be something...about him…well, I'm sure it's nothing…"

* * *

_A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing and for the follows and favorites! I must admit that, while I have the story planned out, I'm debating still on precise length… There are historical nuances I wish to include, but I know my main objective (as it always seems to be and as I know many of you also strive to do) is simply to fix (or—to humbly—offer Mr. Fellowes' a way to fix) our lovely couple (preferably by the Christmas Special, though I have doubts) and I have no desire to bore or become tedious to those of you who are gracious enough to read these stories… I hope you're enjoying it and please do let me know what you think..._


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: A mild warning about violent content for this chapter._

* * *

Edith tapped her foot subconsciously to the jazz beat from inside the restaurant, paused, turned, and walked back in the other direction. She'd purposely arrived almost one full hour early to meet Anthony and explain the afternoon restaurant debacle with Michael. As Edith's heels clicked outside on the front walk, she smiled politely to those entering the establishment and smoothed the dark green folds of her dress, huddled a bit in her coat as the breeze picked up, fingers touched her hair repeatedly to put back what blew astray, nervous, as she rehearsed her words; the truth of her and Michael, the stakes of the project and her relationship, became more complex as she considered the consequences and the perceived threats from Michael.

Michael appeared and greeted her first, though, confident and assured in his plans. He went inside, leaving Edith to meet Anthony, and Michael made certain the reserved table within was ready for the party. The three fellow writers and publishers—males haughty in carriage- greeted her at the door before seeing themselves inside to meet Michael.

Edith grew anxious. Minutes passed and her feet began to ache from the pacing. Then, recognizing Anthony's familiar gait down the block, she smiled. Within a few meters of seeing her, he removed his hat, "Good evening, Lady Edith."

Her eyes narrowed on him, obvious annoyance and concern at the use of her title. "Sir Anthony," she mirrored. Before he could enter, she took his right hand with both of hers. "We need to talk—I need to explain Michael's behavior."

"No, it's quite all right. I understand. He's your editor and—"

Edith shook her head, emphatic. "It's more complicated—"

"Lady Edith, he seems to care for you and I'm glad you've found someone—"

"No, it's not—"

"Major! How wonderful to see you!" Michael approached them, quickly clapping Anthony's right shoulder, oblivious to the gentleman's discomfort. "Right this way. You're the guest of honor, Sir, and I hope you'll enjoy the dinner—" and he winked at Edith, "And the company, right, darling?"

Throughout the dinner, Edith sat directly across from Anthony and studied him. Michael sat beside her. In the company of friends aware of his situation, he felt more than comfortable in wrapping an arm around her or whispering in her ear—intimacies that told Anthony everything he needed to know, and Anthony avoided eye contact with her for almost the entire time and chose to focus on the stage behind her or the person speaking to him.

Very quickly it became clear that the dinner was not about the project and her writing so much as about men indulging in the romance of war drama and making Anthony tense with each poke and prod. Every one of his movements, sighs, blinks, and shudders—she felt them. The questions thrown at him during the barrage of drinks and the subsequent dining, combined with the near-shouting over the jazz, frayed his nerves and she could see it; when Edith did try to speak up or offer her opinions, Michael laughed off her interpretations or interrupted to completely shut her down and it was in those moments that Anthony did observe her—utterly defeated—and his heart broke. Michael's hold over her kept her quiet, though, for the most part, as she remembered his words: "Keep in mind, love, that I still have control over this—I've been the one behind your success and I'm the one in the know, so to speak… You have the rights to this because of _me_. I know who it is you're writing about and I know how…fragile…writing careers are in this business…not to mention how _delicate _your _subject_ appears to be…" Since the threat earlier that afternoon, Edith had been working the problems through and had no solutions; she'd given him what she thought ultimate power with the first article she'd submitted for publication prior to her luncheon with Anthony, and Michael now held all the strings. So Edith sat complacent, contemplating Anthony's answers, reading him as best she could, and trying to determine a way out of this dreadful situation for both of them.

The evening wore on and Anthony began to withdraw, his answers monosyllabic to the inane inquiries. The political statement the others wished to make became clear with each tangent of the experience explored, yet they refused to see Anthony's reluctance to play the part of pawn. "Tell us about intelligence work…" or "What was the worst portion of your service…" or "The torture some prisoners recounted—now, that didn't really occur—only propaganda is what some say…but we should clarify the truth there to the extreme—perhaps embellish a bit to really bring the issue home" or "How do you feel about the label 'coward' because those who suffer can't seem to get on—excuses, really, is what we hear from the doctors…they just need rest…lazy…" and that caused Edith to finally excuse herself, knowing an intervention was impossible given the atmosphere and the relationships at stake. Michael, concerned for the impression or her abrupt leave-taking, caught up to her across the bar near the doors.

Anthony watched a portion of their exchange. When Michael forcefully grabbed Edith's elbow, Anthony didn't even excuse himself from the table, but wordlessly walked over to the darkened entryway.

"And you should respect them and write the answers to these issues they're suggesting, _darling_! If you don't, then perhaps—"

"They have no respect for the truth and power of this project, Michael, not for me as a writer, certainly, nor for—"

"I managed to put this together because I know your talent _and_, don't forget, darling, that I'm doing this because I love you!" Michael growled and then saw Edith's face in the shadows—the fear and her eyes looking beyond him. He dropped her arm and spun to see Anthony staring at the two of them. "Ah, Major—yes, Edith and I were just—"

"A lady should never be abused—never hurt like that, Mr. Gregson, particularly Lady Edith."

Michael appeared indignant, a contemptuous smirk on his face, his black, bead-like eyes assessing Anthony from head to toe before he leaned close to Anthony—almost meeting his height: "You'd know all about hurting her, wouldn't you, _Sir Anthony_? Perhaps the label of coward is the best one for men like you, after all, given your own utterly abhorrent behavior towards _Lady Edith_."

"Michael! How dare you!" Edith's open-handed slap to Michael's jaw surprised even her.

Anthony's eyes met Michael's glare, the latter touching his cheek where Edith's hand had been and sneering. "The differences, Mr. Gregson, between us begin with the fact that I _know_ I am in no way deserving of her and your arrogance precludes you from acknowledging that very fact about yourself—not with your words to her, most likely—but your shallow, selfish, and deplorable actions I've witnessed in public thus far and most certainly, I would presume, the ones you've perpetrated against her in private given your…relationship."

Michael gaped at Anthony's insinuations and then watched as Anthony turned to Edith, "My apologies. I really have no right to judge your personal relationships; I only wish for you to be happy and be treated as you deserve." He paused. "There're some details I think we need to clarify regarding the questions asked and my brief replies this evening—answers that can't be explained here for this…particular audience and in this place. Perhaps breakfast in the morning—"

"How about now—while everything is still fresh in our minds…from this evening? I'll get my coat."

Michael failed to come out of his stupor in time to reach for her as she brushed past him and Anthony had already followed. Instead of making a further scene, Michael sought to whitewash the entire event and laughed it off in front of his guests—making excuses for the two and their passion for the project and the ignited writing fervor stemming from the discussion during dinner…

Once outside, Edith and Anthony hailed a car. Edith gave the address of her flat and took Anthony's hand in hers… "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"It wasn't all intolerable."

"Which part of it was…tolerable?"

"I appreciated the music—the singer, Jack Ross, was his name? The passion of it, the raw beauty—torture to hear, really, in some ways…and you—what you were able to contribute before being so rudely cut off at every turn…"

"Thank you, Anthony."

At her flat, Edith put a favorite jazz record on the gramophone at a low volume and made coffee, poured Anthony a small cup as they sat together on the sofa. "Michael's married." She waited for Anthony's response, a judgment of some kind. When she received no reply, she continued. "His wife's in an asylum, hospitalized for the rest of her life, I'm sure."

Anthony listened.

"When I arrived in London…well, I appreciated his attentions and he was kind and supportive—"

"Edith, you don't have to justify your relationships to me. I'm only here for you for this…work—to assist you." He stared at the coffee cup in his hand.

Edith saw the reinstalled fortifications invisibly and swiftly erected by him once more and, tired, gave up for the moment. "Right? Well, the…scars…the war they inquired about this evening—what was it you wanted to clarify?"

Anthony's eyes closed, his voice low. "One of my partners turned—gave me up—the Germans took advantage and, without going into too many details just now, I was kept, not as a prisoner with rules for treatment, but as a spy with knowledge. They did…everything they could…to gain that information."

Edith gathered a pen and her notepad from the file nearby on her table. "I saw the scars—so they did torture you?"

"Repeated _interrogations_." Anthony looked across the room, the memory causing him to shudder.

"Anthony…"

"Threats, beatings, weapons…they used my wound as a starting point and my arm has never healed properly—it's dead, Edith, as am I in so many ways," he whispered to himself, but Edith heard and rested her hand on his arm. Anthony recoiled from her though and moved aside, out of her reach. He pushed his hair back, the front locks falling again on his forehead, his hand still showing signs of tremors. "Finally, I was stabbed just as our men located me…"

Edith touched her eye, blinked. "Is this the substance of your nightmares? This torture?"

Anthony turned away from her.

"You haven't been sleeping, have you, because you've been dreading having to talk about it?" Edith moved closer to him.

The music intensified. The soft wail of the trumpet filled the silence between them. Edith waited, had no idea of the breaking point that she'd breached.

Anthony's anger, bitterness spilled out of him. "I'm tired—I've no wish to go on about this or put my 'cowardice' on display here by breaking down in front of you tonight. I'm sorry, Edith." He tried to stand, but she pulled him down to her.

"There's nothing cowardly about your behavior, Anthony Strallan—"

"Not even when I left you? Of course that was cowardice. Michael's right."

"That was not it—I know it. I've heard my family's comments since and their ridiculous notions that you were doing the 'honorable' thing by me and I find it disgraceful. My feelings apparently had no matter at all in the entire affair and you were left at every dinner or tea knowing they disapproved of you. It wasn't you! It was them…Anthony, it was them." Edith moved close to him and he finally turned to face her.

"I can't sleep for the nightmares; I'm crippled, ruined, incompetent in most everything a man should be able to do on his own; I left you…hurt and humiliated you beyond forgiveness and, here we are, with me as a different sort of project for you…and I'm certain I will fail you in this as well…"

"Anthony, you're not a project." Edith's frustration and determination spurred her. "Why are you doing this?"

"For you…always…"

"Why?" Edith's hands cupped his face, forced him to focus on her. "Tell me…"

Anthony tried to look away, searching. "I want what's best—"

"What's best for me…why?"

"Because you matter to me…your career—" He tried to cover for his misstep.

"Tell me, Anthony, why I matter—because we both know you're not sacrificing yourself—reliving this pain—for the sake of my _career_…tell me," she begged, her lips meeting his before he could answer…


	9. Chapter 9

_The drops of rain lulled him to sleep…the pattern of the rain tapping on…what? Something out of his sight… Sleep remained his only escape from pain; the fire and the throbbing in his shoulder radiated down his arm and all along his shoulder blade and his back. The loss of blood and the further injuries caused during his interrogations brought on a pounding in his head that drove him to nausea most days and nights. Given the imposed darkness in the tiny room, he'd lost track of time. Sometimes, his dreams proved kind—or cruel—enough to give him Edith…to make believe she was waiting for him at home despite what had transpired on her parents' lawn…_

_He'd had time to think. Left alone in the empty room for hours at a time. Scattered images. Fragmented conversations. The montage of memories intervening in the darkest moments of physical agony. The more Anthony considered the events from the garden party, the more he knew the logical pieces of the puzzle of their courtship failed to agree with Mary's story of Edith's alleged betrayal…but why? He didn't believe in himself enough to believe in Edith's attentions. Over and over, he recounted their drives, the dinners, the concert, and the picnic he'd taken her on at Locksley. Yes, the picnic recollection looped most often, a bittersweet salvation amidst terror. The picnic, alone together in the orchard, was when he'd decided while looking at her—lying on the blanket beside him on her back while he lay on his side, head resting in his hand—to propose. He'd been watching her dreamily staring at the clouds, laughing as she turned to him, her hand touching his cheek and her fingertips coming to rest at his lips as he smiled at her… 'Thank you,' she'd said… 'For what?'… 'Caring.'… 'It's more than just caring for you, Edith,'… 'For me, too, it's more—something I've not felt…before…not like this…'…'Would you like more afternoons like this one, sweet one?'…'Yes, please…this and more—with you, the two of us alone.' _

_During their time together, nothing appeared merely one-sided…she had felt as he did! Did she remember…? Was she missing him? Could she…? _

_His analytical thinking would wane; exhausted…the dreams would take over then… Her eyes, her laughter, her hands in his hair, the feel of her not only accepting him and his arms around her, but eagerly welcoming and wanting more of him… The shy-but-obvious_ _pleasure she took in the intimacies they shared—proper, modest at first, but then deepening kisses… The feel of her fingers on his chest, along his collar, clutching him tighter as her lips parted for him… _

_A bright light! The door opening and his blue eyes squinting at the source, blinded, with his good arm shielding his face—his body being pulled to a standing position and pushed, roughly, the impact of the wall on his shoulder again as he tried to gain his footing…_

* * *

Edith sighed, her lips inviting Anthony in every way, her hands moving from his face to his neck immersing him in warmth with each breath, each touch. When Anthony's hand pressed her closer to him, not away, Edith moaned against his mouth, her eyes closing, forcing the tear to her cheek. "I love you, Anthony…love me…"

"I do…"

In the ensuing minutes, Edith shifted and draped her legs to sit in his lap and Anthony accommodated her, urged her closer against him. The whispered confessions, the delicate weaving of words and their lives with spoken apologies and unspoken forgiveness, breaths and explorations, seemed to heal them, as though the reawakened, ethereal magic between them could erase all but the perfection that endured, had existed and lingered for more than eight years.

Anthony opened his eyes. Edith pulled away for a moment, pushed her hair back. The lamp lit her features perfectly. The line of her neck, her now-swollen lips, her flushed cheeks, her chest as she sought a deep breath. His hand traced each curve that his eyes settled on…her own hands threaded his hair, her eyes drank in the sight of him… Edith saw in him the desire and reverence for her that she'd longed for…

"Stay with me, Anthony."

The words brought him back. "No, no, I can't."

"You're hesitating because—"

"Because it's late," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow if you wish to continue, but it's…" Her lips brushed his. "Very late."

"You're certain you won't just…stay with me here?"

Anthony studied her, somber in the light, knowing what she was pleading for and knowing he shouldn't.

"Edith, I should go…"

"And I know you will, but please breakfast with me tomorrow and…don't regret what's happened, please?" Edith's hands brought his face up to hers, her dark eyes consuming him. "I love you."

Anthony coaxed her off of him and stood, straightened his shirt and took off his tie given that it had managed to come undone, and let Edith help him with his coat.

"Anthony?"

He turned to her, the door open behind him. "I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

Looking in the mirror, believing none of what occurred in Edith's flat, Anthony observed his limp arm and the scars that charted his injuries. _Nothing's changed,_ he chastised himself_. _Anthony, choked then, wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand and cursed the war and fate, lamented for the thousandth time the damage it wrought and all it had taken from him, and himself for his own foolishness—twice in leaving Edith and for the previous night's indiscretion and lack of discipline. He mustn't get close to her—last night hadn't happened—he'd only continue to meet her in public, not private, limit the possibility of interaction. He would have Stewart deliver the journals for her project, rescind his invitation to Locksley, and he'd resume his _existence _of solitude and allow Edith to truly live—free of him, as she deserved.

When Stewart entered the darkened library, he approached Anthony quietly and placed _The Sketch _in front of him on the desk and waited. Anthony attempted to focus, exhausted from his ruminations the night before, having slept little. _A bright light!_

"What?" Anthony paled; he picked up the paper, adjusting the distance to read it more clearly. "This is not—"

"Sir?"

"Pack my things, Stewart. We're returning to Locksley on the first train—this is finished." As Anthony stood, he almost collapsed. Stewart caught him on his left side to support him, felt him shaking. _A bright light!_ The wounds reopened, the impact devastating him.

"Sir? You look unwell—should I get a doctor?"

Anthony stammered, at first, incoherent. "No, no I'm not—it's not—we agreed, but—I can't—Edith can't… Stewart, we're departing as soon as you've everything ready, please—hurry. I can't do this…"

"Of course, Sir. Right away."

* * *

Edith poured a cup of coffee and opened _The Sketch_. Before she took a sip, she gaped.

"Milady, is there anything—"

Edith didn't answer. She'd stormed out the door, hoping she wasn't too late…

Mrs. Chambliss glanced at the paper where Edith spilled the bit of coffee. The page she read showed the article by Lady Edith Crawley and introduced-by name-Major Anthony Strallan, baronet and decorated officer, to the entire country…


	10. Chapter 10

There was no note at Anthony's town house, no person answering the door, no sound at all.

Edith cried tears of frustration and proceeded to _The Sketch _offices, not hesitating to enter Michael's office without permission as his secretary attempted to stop her.

Michael stood as his door swung open violently, shock and then a smile on his face even as he saw the redness in her eyes and the rage in her countenance.

"What were you thinking?" Edith fumed, slamming the door behind her. "How dare you publish his name when I told you—"

"Edith, it was a mistake, darling, I swear!" Michael threw up his arms, posturing to show his submission.

"A mistake? A costly one! He's gone now! There's no way he's going to continue—you've ruined everything."

Michael sat down in his chair with a smirk, his fingers resting on his suspender straps. "Oh, darling Edith, you underestimate yourself," he admonished.

"What do you mean?"

"He'd do anything for you, don't you see it? I know I certainly saw it last night."

Edith folded her arms, lifted her chin. "You're the one underestimating, Michael. He had this one condition—to remain anonymous—for us to publish it at all, he wished his name to remain out of it. We broke that promise—were disrespectful and unethical, to say the least—and he's gone this morning!"

"From your bed?"

Edith gasped. "You—!" Taking a breath, she tried to calm, knowing others were now gawking outside his office, hoping for a view to accompany the verbal clash echoing outside. With steel in her voice and her teeth clenched, Edith announced, "I resign—effective immediately. This project is over." She turned to walk out and Michael launched out of his chair and leapt in front of her to block her way.

His look was as icy as hers, but his voice now sounded desperate. "Edith, I'm telling you—it was a mistake! I love you and you have to know I wouldn't let this happen on purpose, not to something I was encouraging you to pursue, darling. Please! You know as well as I that mistakes happen in this business. He'll understand if you just—" But Michael smiled, and Edith knew the bluff.

"Get out of my way—and let me alone."

After a long moment, Michael whispered, "Admit it then: last night…with him. You did, didn't you?"

When Edith stared straight ahead and remained silent, refused to lower herself, Michael acquiesced and opened the door. As she passed him, she heard the venomous word he spat for her hearing alone, "Slut."

Knowing the entire office had gone still around her, earnestly attempting to catch even the slightest droplet of gossip pertaining to what was happening, Edith leaned, smiled thinly, and murmured in his ear, "Michael, you're only this upset—this jealous—because you _wish_ all the rumors about us these past months were true—but the truth is: you never had me, not in my bed nor yours, and I most certainly_ never_ loved you." She paused, remembering the night she'd found Anthony in the rain, how she'd held him as he slept in her bed, and, against her better judgment, she gave in to the absolute disdain she felt for Michael and decided seeing him driven mad in front of the entire office served him right for what he'd done to Anthony—and to her. She whispered, "When he was in my bed, Michael, well, I knew—and always have known, sweetheart—but _feeling_ him against me only confirmed how utterly perfect we are together. Oh…so _perfect_," she added, wistfully.

Edith knew she had an audience as she walked out. Every typewriter had gone silent and the phones rang unanswered for that long minute. Michael watched her, his face scarlet, his fists clenched, and his mouth agape. As soon as the door shut behind her, she heard his fury spewed at the staff, "What? Get back to work!" Edith relished the moment with a small grin, and then, thinking of Anthony so far away, hurting and confused, the smile vanished and she hailed a car to return to her flat.

* * *

Mrs. Chambliss helped Edith pack, uncertain as to the length of her stay once she arrived in Yorkshire. Edith spent the day gathering her notes and files, all of the work she had done and every scrap from the file Michael had given her. When she boarded the train the next morning, she was exhausted from the sleepless night and the emotional drain of the events. After spending what seemed hours wondering about Anthony, his reaction and his emotional state after their evening together—what he must think of her, what she would need to say to him—she finally tired, the train rocking her to and fro until she dozed off...

* * *

The driver helped her with her two cases and she hurried to the door, knocking relentlessly until Stewart answered.

Edith stepped past Stewart and searched. "Where is he?"

"Lady—"

"Where is he, please, Stewart? I've come straight from London and I have to find him—he has to know that I didn't have anything to do with it."

"He left to take a walk around the estate, milady, and hasn't returned. He didn't say—"

"Has he spoken to you about it? You do know why he left?"

Stewart only sighed and nodded his head. "Yes, milady—"

"We were there, Stewart, talking about what mattered—and now it's been…destroyed, utterly ruined! He probably doesn't trust me at all now. I need to find him."

Edith was already headed down the corridor.

Once in the library, Edith searched for any sign of him. Then she looked out the window into the reddish glow of dusk and saw his silhouette on the far edge of the orchard. His pace was slow, his arm free of the sling and settled close to his side, the long coat unbuttoned and rippling out behind him in soft waves with the breeze as he walked, and his head turned in profile towards the fields…

"Anthony." Edith slipped her heels off and rushed out the door, "Anthony!"

Anthony turned his head towards the cry, taking several hurried steps towards the house, and then freezing. "Edith…?" he whispered.

Moments later when she reached him, Edith tried to catch her breath and explain herself all at once. "Please believe me…I didn't…Michael says he didn't mean for it…Anthony…I tried to find you after, but—"

Anthony reached for her arm to steady her as she gained breath and Edith held onto him, seized his coat with both hands, and leaned into him.

When she looked up at him again, she was crying. "You must know that I would never hurt you—never betray you like that…I resigned yesterday. Michael and I had words—but, Anthony, please, I'm terribly, terribly—" Edith felt him still.

"I know it wasn't your fault. Perhaps we should go in and talk? Darkness is coming on."

The cryptic tone made Edith uneasy, but she sensed no animosity. She followed him inside and they sat together in the library.

Stewart stoked the fire for them and Mrs. Brandon smiled at Edith as she laid out a plate of scones—Edith's favorites—with the tea. "Milady."

"Thank you, Mrs. Brandon," Edith said, her surprise and delight evident.

When they were left alone, Edith eyed Anthony. "She doesn't prepare these often—I know."

"I might've mentioned you," came his sheepish admission. "I apologize for departing abruptly; I felt I had no alternative when I saw…the paper."

"Anthony, about that—"

"Please, Edith. Let me explain." Anthony came to sit by her on the sofa, the fire warming them both, and Anthony's voice low. "Do you know how Mr. Gregson came across my file?"

The question hadn't occurred to Edith. Information came into the mail room all the time and ended up on Michael's desk for inquiry and investigation. She eyed Anthony, curious, and shook her head.

"When I left yesterday, I was…shaken. I needed time for it to make sense, and, in the hours since, I have taken some action to remedy this—for both of us."

Edith finished the scone, dabbed the corners of her mouth, and sipped her tea—intrigued by Anthony's tone. He was skilled and knowledgeable at most everything they'd ever discussed, but she was positively riveted to know what he'd done to solve their mutual dilemma concerning Michael and her writing.

"I contacted my solicitor in London and had him make some inquiries—into Michael, the paper, and the sudden access to classified documents. As I viewed them last week at your flat, it seemed suspicious to me that some of it would be, well, leaked to a public paper." Anthony turned towards Edith, shifting closer to her. "It seems Michael has a habit of using, shall we say, illicit sources for some of his material—and my file was happened upon quite illegally with the help of a young officer who meant no harm, but needed money, and will be disciplined for the…trespass…into classified material—and, due to his poor decision-making, he will probably be discharged. Mr. Gregson was using you and your...connection to me. The investigation didn't take much time at all given that I was in London this past week meeting with friends in the intelligence offices and such—they acted quite immediately upon seeing the article and hearing from my solicitor, particularly given the information at stake."

Edith's eyes widened, which spurred a smile from Anthony. She said nothing, only waited as she could tell that there was a postscript to his story.

"Mr. Gregson will be receiving a letter within the week from my solicitor, as well, explaining the situation—fully. His instructions will be quite specific and will include the requirement of printing a letter of apology—both to you, our officers and veterans, and to the readers—for his breach of journalistic ethics and morals…or he will face…consequences. In addition, his behavior towards you the other night at the restaurant led me to include a potential harassment charge on your behalf, which you may endorse or leave alone depending on how inappropriate his behavior was towards you when you, as you say, 'had words' with him over this incident and your resignation yesterday; it's entirely up to you and your whim. I was only being meticulous and, perhaps, protective of you."

Edith's lips crept into a smile, curving slightly, admiration for him in her eyes. "And you? What about his specific offense to you?"

"He need not mention me ever again—if he fails in regards to you or his readers, then he will deal with me again…perhaps more directly." Anthony took a sip of tea and set it back down on the saucer, his eyes never leaving Edith.

"I must admit I'm quite impressed, Anthony Strallan. You've solved this wretched problem and managed to cover everyone…"

Anthony finally let his shoulders relax, leaning back a bit against the sofa. "Are you all right, Edith? Please know that I didn't doubt you—not once I put the pieces together after my…initial panic."

Edith leaned towards him, ventured forward to touch his hand. "I'm quite fine—now. Thank you…for believing in me, even if it took a little while this time." He didn't flinch or move away, his eyes focused on hers.

"You have luggage?"

Edith nodded.

"Your stay at Locksley—"

"Is cancelled, I presume, now that the project is over?"

Anthony withdrew his hand then, his blue eyes darker. "If you wish to continue your work—perhaps for the book you have the ambition to write—then you are welcome to stay for the duration of your research, I suppose, in order to gain the necessary background and all. You're already here, after all, unless you would feel more comfortable simply taking the journals and returning to London to work—which I see as best. The classified material, however, is out of the question in terms of publication. I imagine you will be, perhaps, fictionalizing this into a novel—sometimes—"

"Sometimes the truth can only be told through fiction," Edith interrupted. But she had heard the distance, recognized the coming rejection in his voice.

"Indeed, yes." Anthony took a breath and went to stand by the fire.

"This is too important in terms of the subject matter, Anthony—the treatment of our men who have suffered. I do want to continue and I do want to do you and the others justice, if only in the form of a novel—hopefully, a catalyst for change." Edith saw him nod in agreement, solemn. "And I don't see leaving for London as best—I'll still need your assistance and insight given the extent of your experience and expertise in so many different areas of the military and, technically, I'm unemployed given my resignation."

"I respect your wishes. I'll provide you with the journals and, should you need me for clarifications, can make myself available to you. But I would appreciate efficiency for when you're finished I still think it best that you…leave immed—"

"Anthony, the other night—"

"Edith. Nothing's changed. You have to see that. I was…weak the other night. Unlike this writing business, the problem of the two of us—time and circumstance—can't be solved—I'm sorry there's no way for me to redeem myself or to alter what's been done..." Anthony rang for Stewart and Edith stood in stunned silence. "Stewart will show you to your room, Lady Edith. The journals will be waiting for you in the morning. Good night," Anthony said, dismissing her, unable to look at her or see the tears that threatened in her eyes.

"I'll see you in the morning, Sir Anthony," Edith said, bravely lifting her face to his before turning to Stewart to follow him out. Before she made it out the door, though, she walked to Anthony, still standing by the fire. Edith reached for his cheek, turned his face to her, and he closed his eyes. "Everything's changed, my love. You believed in me this time—not like the garden party with Mary or my family and the wedding—you had faith in me and I daresay in us. You knew I'd not hurt you like that, knew I'd come…you've allowed me here at Locksley…and I know—after the other night and seeing you now—I know how much you love me." She waited for his blue eyes to open and then she saw the anguish at his own restraint as her touch affected him. "You're wrong about us. There's nothing to 'solve' and no 'redemption' is necessary. I love you, Anthony Strallan, despite your age and injury and our pasts, the mistakes we've both made. To me, you are and always have been everything. And I remember your words only two nights ago—it wasn't just passion in the heat of the moment, Anthony—I know the same is true for you, how you feel about me. You only have to see…and you will…and I'll be here. Good night."


	11. Chapter 11

When Edith left Anthony in the library, Stewart led her upstairs to her room and the long corridor filled with other doors made her wonder which one was Anthony's bedroom. She lay awake long enough later that night to hear the faint sound of a door opening and closing and she knew he wasn't far away at all…

The next morning, Edith went to the dining room and found herself alone with one place setting and a delicious array put out by Mrs. Brandon. A box was waiting for her by the chair with a note.

_Lady Edith,_

_Here are the promised journals. A typewriter has been set up in a room near the library for your convenience. _

_Anthony_

Edith groaned.

"Is there something wrong, milady?" Mrs. Brandon asked, appearing and startling Edith.

"Oh, no, of course not, Mrs. Brandon. I apologize. This looks wonderful. I'm just," Edith shrugged. "I'm just sad to be dining alone. I had rather thought Sir Anthony would be kind enough to join me…but it's all right. Never mind. Thank you for breakfast." Edith sat and affectionately frowned at Mrs. Brandon, who offered an understanding smile.

"He's out this morning on business, milady, otherwise, I feel certain he would be here. He left quite early this morning; sometimes, I think the sun waits on him to set the day and rise, if you know what I mean. If you need anything, milady, just ring and I'll be about."

Edith couldn't help but smile at the warmth Mrs. Brandon exuded towards her. "Thank you, Mrs. Brandon. I appreciate your kindness very much."

Edith waited for the older woman to leave and then reached into the box. Sifting through the journals, Edith noticed dates and chose one. She paged through it while she ate. When she finished, Edith tried to pick up the box, realized it was far too heavy and, instead, stacked and carried several of the soft, leather-bound notebooks and sought out the room with the typewriter near Anthony's library.

Anthony never showed. Not that first day and not the second. Mrs. Brandon was exceedingly polite—and apologetic for his absence—and took care of whatever Edith required, which wasn't much given that she had her workspace set up and the journals to read through. By the end of the third day, Edith's exhaustion overwhelmed her. She'd covered his later school years and university and the first years he'd taken over Locksley—numbers and pages of crops, modernization techniques, machinery sketches, documentation of conversations with tenant farmers, loans, and every other business detail—and then she'd come to his life with Maud. By the time she'd finished reading of their wedding, and the years of marriage until her death, Edith felt she'd crossed too many lines, intruded on his privacy, and she closed it with tears streaming down her face.

The orchard and sunshine beckoned and Edith stretched, grabbed her coat and another journal, and walked outside into the cool air. The words Anthony had written about the first miscarriage and their heartbreak, then the second, and the third...left her sobbing. The gift and curse of a journal was that she could _hear _Anthony talking…could hear the anguish as he described Maud's subsequent depressions, watching her withdraw further with each loss, feeling helpless to save her, and seeking so desperately to have a family. But it was her death—the recorded date of hers and his son's only hours apart—and the blank pages that were left in the remainder of the journal that haunted her as she walked the estate. Edith reasoned and recognized that it wasn't the romance she'd thought—there were no poems or remnants of a passionate love affair—it was the respect and companionship evident in every word Anthony used, a pedestal he seemed to acknowledge to himself that he'd put her on for marrying him at all, and the emptiness he wrote of when his dreams of a family were dashed so tragically again and again until that final terrible afternoon.

Engrossed in her thoughts, observing Locksley's estate as she walked, Edith saw Anthony's thoughtful, painstaking, and brilliant stamp on everything, her appreciation and knowledge deepened from reading his vision and plans about every part of the grounds. She finally smiled. She knew he worked closely with the gardener in planning and landscaping and, of course, the tenant farmers with the crop planting. There was beauty even in the efficiency of the business of production. The orchard, in particular, and the nearby creek seemed to be set aside for solitude—benches and nearby beds of flowers neatly tended. She'd walked with him through here a few times, her favorite the afternoon of the picnic so many years ago. During the engagement of 1920, they'd barely seen one another alone, but the few walks together here Edith recalled vividly: leaning into each other, in step, talking about their future, and Anthony stopping, overcome in a moment, kissing her—sweet and impetuous… She took out the journal she'd tucked in her pocket as she left the house, sat down on a slope near the creek, and began reading about the first half of 1914. It was all there, as she knew it would be: his surprise at the invitation to Downton to see Mary—along with his resignation due to her 'abrupt and cold nature—not to mention shallow; it seems there's little to discuss with her as she doesn't read and pays little attention to the world' that he sensed his efforts 'futile'; Edith laughed and nodded her head at Anthony's phrasing regarding her sister and then said aloud, "You've never been more right, darling." Anthony wrote of his doubts the day he asked her to the concert—and the update later that night detailing his apprehension and surprise and delight at her acceptance; his self-deprecation and fears of rejection by her, and the joy of finding someone to talk to, the conversations they had on their drives, the picnic… For the first time, Edith read his words and understood his perspective from that afternoon and she found herself smiling and then wiping away tears… _I have never felt this way, certainly an old fool in love—she's so young—and I find myself believing this is too good, that this love—yes, it is love on my part, at least—can't be real. When I asked her today if she wanted more days like this one, she said, 'Yes, please… more—with you, the two of us alone.' I told her I couldn't believe my luck and she kissed me…after that, I teased that I needed further convincing and she laughed—God! Her laugh, her smile. If it were my duty for the rest of my life to make her happy, then I should be most delighted in fulfilling such. These weeks have given me new life and I cannot imagine another week or month of my life here without her. I shall propose at the garden party…_ Edith chose to shut the journal then. Edith certainly had memories at Locksley, but they were now becoming more meaningful for her because she was so captivated by him—completely inside of his head. If it was possible, Edith loved him more now than she ever had before and that realization frightened her because it meant she had that much more of herself to lose.

Upon returning to the house, Edith took up her work again and Mrs. Brandon brought her dinner. The hour became late and Edith decided she wasn't turning in until the master of the house appeared, so she bolstered herself with plenty of coffee and a renewed sense of determination. She read of Anthony's service in the beginning of the war—the first terrifying events—and noted the change in his handwriting on the pages. What had been a decisive, smooth, calligraphy-like penmanship on the majority of the pages—save for Maud's and the baby's death when grief affected him so deeply that the markings he did make appeared faint, barely there as though he hadn't the energy to put the pen on the paper—became scrawled, tense, and difficult to read; the tone changed, too, particularly knowing Anthony as she did, and the brusque nature of it concerned her more with each page and each event detailed. Edith succumbed to sleep by her typewriter some time later in the midst of the second war journal, waiting for him to no avail, and woke in the early hours with a crick in her neck and her shoulders so tense she had to move slowly as she sat upright to not cause herself further pain. She stood in anger, huffing and whispering her frustration at Anthony for avoiding her. When she left her room, she saw a lamp light on in the library and peeked inside to see Anthony, awake, his posture stooped as he wrote at the desk in his study. Standing there, watching him, Edith thought back to the journals she'd studied over the past days: the hours Anthony had spent working with other officers on missions, the first deaths he'd documented in the war, the pain of Maud, Edith's own perceived rejection of him…and her mood softened. She fought the urge to run to him and hold him, to kiss him, to explain to him how much she now understood.

Edith took a deep breath, effectively burying those feelings, and knocked gently, startling him. "Good…morning."

"It's late. What're you still doing up?"

Edith's eyebrows rose, returning the question without speaking a word.

"Work—it's quite busy with the season coming on…preparations, you see…"

"I know—Mrs. Brandon's run out of ways to tell me how busy you are in your—quite noticeable—absence."

Anthony drew a deep breath, his eyes bleary in the dim light, his voice soft with weariness. "Edith—"

She held up her hand though. "I know. I know exactly what you're doing—waiting me out—and I can assure you it won't work. Besides, I'm going to need you soon—to sit and talk with you. I've been making some real progress, but we're going to have to talk."

"I understand."

"Will tomorrow be all right?"

"No, I'm sorry—I can't tomorrow."

"Then the next day?"

"Edith—"

"Anthony, you can't expect me to be able to finish if—"

"All right, yes. I'll make myself available, but not tomorrow—it'll have to be in two days' time." When met with her stern look, he glanced down, apologetic. "Please—two days."

"Then, I'll plan on the day with you—"

"The entire day?"

"Yes, all day, Anthony. Please—the day together?"

"Yes, all right." He looked at her, admiring her stubbornness. "You're still quite excellent at negotiations."

Edith gave him a proud smile, a touch of wry humor to it. "Thank you. You need to relax and get some rest—I can tell you've been exhausting yourself working—and staying away from here." Anthony began to protest, but Edith came to him and put her hands on his shoulders, and he knew any efforts to dissuade her would be futile. Edith casually massaged his shoulders before moving lower, kneading his back.

At first, Anthony sat up straighter, resisting with the echo of propriety in his head fighting to win out; Edith's hands, though, forced his submission, his head bending forward, and he felt the knots and tension in his muscles dissolving. Between held breaths and soft moans he attempted to suppress, Anthony said, "You're worried about me. There's no need...to try to take care of me. I'm just…working—"

"I do worry about you because you don't take care of yourself; you have the most successful estate in the county." Edith continued rubbing his shoulder blades and then up to his neck. "I've always thought you needed looking after—I enjoy being the one to do it; I can't stand it when you disappear…and leave me. The coming days when we talk—may be…difficult, I suspect." Edith leaned closer to him, felt the warmth of his skin through his cotton shirt, her arms almost embracing him from behind as he sat leaning forward in his chair at the desk. "Please, Anthony, you need to rest."

He nodded, his left hand reaching to hers to stop her ministrations. He let go and then stood beside her. She looked up at him, took his hand, turned out the lamp, and led him out and up the stairs. When Edith came to the door of her room, she stopped and looked to him.

Anthony whispered, "Good night, Edith."

Edith kissed him on the cheek and he backed away, walked to his room and started to open the door before he looked back down the hall, and saw she was still there. "Good night, Anthony. Sleep well."

Anthony gave her a small smile. He stepped into his room, exhaled, and leaned his head back against the door. Staring at his bed, the image of Edith flashed before him. For a moment, he allowed himself the vision of her wanting him, needing him…before he chastised himself for the ungentlemanly thoughts. Almost as punishment, Anthony began thinking of the war—remembering and going over in his mind what would be discussed between them. Inevitably though, as he lay awake, his mind drifted and settled on her, just as it had before, as he searched for peace in those years away and during the ones since when his own sense of self-sacrifice and honor broke both of them. Only during this night, his heart kept up the constant refrain of reminding him just how very close to his bed she was…not a country or an ocean apart, not a car drive away, not the eternal distance of sin and forgiveness…she was lying in bed in his home…four doors away…


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: A slight warning here for potentially disturbing war material; I have tried to stay true to a bit of research I've done regarding WWI experiences and yet keep it tasteful and compelling—without gruesome, unnecessary detail. _

_Thank you for reading! I hope you're appreciating it thus far and I do very much enjoy knowing what you think/reading your reactions! I'm so thankful for the feedback and I hope I'm not disappointing anyone with the storyline or the depiction of our favorite couple…_

* * *

In advance of her opportunity to talk with Anthony, Edith made a priority of finishing all of the war journals before breakfast with him. The full day of reading, taking notes, and drafting left her emotionally depleted and so overwhelmed she wanted to hold him, but alternately, for him to be with her and to be surrounded by her, protected, as a shelter from the hell he'd survived—at least physically. Based on the gradually worsening manuscript in his journals—both the events and his pen strokes—Edith grew increasingly worried for Anthony's well-being, the side of him she saw in London and the damage and scars Stewart advised her about afterwards that still affected him, lurking beneath the surface.

As promised, Anthony sat at the dining table at breakfast waiting for Edith, sipping coffee and perusing the paper. Mrs. Brandon brought in a fresh plate for Edith and smiled, discreetly, as she glanced from Edith to Anthony and back again. Edith wasn't certain, but she thought the woman might also have given her a sly wink. While Edith ate, she observed Anthony and knew he was agitated, anxiety exhibited with each flipping of the paper and tapping of his fingers, his boots shifting repeatedly under the table as he sat.

After eating in silence, the two moved to the library, and Edith brought her notes from the other room.

Over the course of the morning, the two sat together and Anthony answered Edith's questions regarding his service in the beginning—tense moments when he described his initial leaving, both knowing the failed engagement lingered unacknowledged.

Edith wrote as Anthony spoke, quiet and somber in his recounting of his time away…

"Having been a part of the Council meetings before in July…"

"As soon as I reported, I engaged in planning and intelligence…we quickly realized the nature of war had changed…"

"Sitting two miles from the trench, we thought we were safe in meeting and…when I awoke, I was…mostly fine—but everything around me, including an entire group of newly-arriving soldiers lay dead…shrapnel everywhere…ghastly injuries…"

"I was held over at one point, stayed on the outskirts of the trenches and was chatting to a young soldier—Percy, I believe, yes…the gunfire and cannon seemed relentless…your nerves eventually just surrender—completely useless because you're on edge the entire time and it wears you down—makes you crazy…Percy looked to me and was smiling, telling me a story about being in school, and then the sniper…" Anthony shuddered and looked at Edith, his blue eyes glistened, haunted. "The sniper chose him and not me; the other soldiers told me it happened like that all the time…as though the sniper was God pointing a finger determining who lived and who…"

Edith excused herself late in the morning, collected herself and gave Anthony a few minutes to recover himself, and she found Mrs. Brandon, instructed her to please pack a picnic lunch for the two of them for a much-needed respite.

When Edith returned to the library with the basket and a blanket, she found Anthony staring, unseeing, at the shelves of books. She set the items down and walked to him. "Anthony?"

He didn't move until she touched his shoulder and then he started. "Wh—?"

Edith jumped when he did, brought her hand to her chest to steady her own breathing. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to alarm you. It's all right; it's just me." She knelt beside him, her voice quiet. "Let's walk outside." Edith coaxed him to stand and took his hand. "A nice lunch—it's just warm enough outside, I think."

Anthony sat rigid on the blanket. Edith watched as he barely ate; he preferred to stare at the water breaking over the few rocks in the creek. The chilly breeze caused her to shiver a bit and she reached for her coat, but he suddenly looked at her and took her hand.

"Come here," he said.

Edith moved closer to him, shifted across the blanket, and he pulled her to him, lifted and shielded his coat to drape across her.

"Are you all right?"

Anthony's voice was so soft she almost didn't hear him. "I've never talked about it before…not like this—in detail."

"I don't mean to push—"

"It's not you." Edith wrapped an arm behind him and let her head rest against him as he spoke. "The journals were my own way of processing what I experienced—they always have been. I've kept them for years as you've seen. But afterwards, when I was found…I couldn't talk about it, even when they asked me over and over about it. They just kept putting me to sleep and the medicine only…trapped me and I couldn't escape it; 'resting' became hell and I tried to tell them not to, almost violently at one point as they thought I was hysterical and they held me down. I tried to tell them that it was horrifying, that it was too much, but...but they wouldn't stop—" His head dropped beside hers as he went quiet.

"Anthony?"

When he looked up, Edith saw his eyes and she cried, too. Edith's arms encircled him, held him. Anthony tried to pull away from her, to push to create distance again, but he yielded to her and finally met her gaze; he felt her fingertip erase the tear at his cheek. She was still unconsciously pulling him closer when he spoke, his tone immediately sharp and low. "Let's return inside—I want to finish this; I know it's your most important section, so to speak. Let's just finish, please."

They remained in the library throughout the afternoon and into the evening. Mrs. Brandon and Stewart brought dinner to them while they worked, though neither really ate. A profound sadness settled between Edith and Anthony as the former asked difficult and painful questions and the latter attempted to answer, but not elaborate—afraid to look like the foolish coward he believed himself to be for such emotion as he'd exhibited in front of her—and so the prodding continued with Edith hesitating and regretting each further inquiry as Anthony seemed to come ever closer to breaking altogether.

"He turned, a double-agent…I had enough evidence on him, but we were deeply involved… When he found me on my own, discovering his treachery… I tried to escape and he and the Germans with him captured me; I was shot in the process—twice…my shoulder…"

"I woke up in a dark room…somewhere in the country for that's all I could hear—birds of some kind; no gunfire or cannon…darkness…"

"My arm lost feeling after a few days…reopened wound occasionally…brutality…interrogations, a test of endurance, of stubbornness, loyalty, stupidity for continuing to deny and evade and invent new ways to lie…time? Lost track…" Anthony filled in grim details for Edith, whose imagination had no difficulty envisioning his agony, and she tried to hide from him the tears that flowed as he spoke—her paper wrinkling as she wrote.

"Eventually, they came…but they knew my colleagues had found me…felt the knife…my life flashed…"

"The nightmares…a prison all their own in hospital…the injections—" He began to stammer, but then stopped altogether.

"Anthony, darling, are you all right?"

The light streaming through the windows ceased hours before and the late-night darkness blanketed the outdoors. The lamps in the library and the fire blazing in the hearth offered the only lighting.

Edith saw him nod and thought she saw a slight shudder, trembling. "I'll be right back. Wait here, please—I've something I need to retrieve."

Edith walked quickly out and down the corridor to the small workroom she'd been using and rummaged through her papers to find some of the classified material, seeking to compare the file materials to Anthony's recounting in order to blend them for the piece. She returned to the library, but found Anthony silent and further distracted.

"We should retire for the evening; I can tell you're tired. Finish tomorrow with this part?" Edith waited, concerned when he didn't respond. "Anthony?"

"Uh, yes, yes…in a bit. I need to tidy a few things here first. Good night." He stood to walk to his desk, but Edith intercepted him.

"Anthony, please come up with me—now—give yourself some rest. Don't stay down here alone, please."

Anthony paused and then allowed her to lead him up to their rooms. Their goodnight salutations were tempered with something different this time though and Edith perceived a change—a persistent aloofness, a wall between them caused by the war that she couldn't raze. Edith remained uneasy as she lay in bed, listening for any sign he may need her, debating whether to check on him and potentially force the issue of the two of them, but she stayed in bed unwilling to offend him further and in the early hours she fell asleep just before Anthony's door opened…

* * *

Edith arrived for breakfast and Mrs. Brandon immediately met her, tense with worry. "Milady, have you heard from Sir Anthony? He never came down this morning."

"No, Mrs. Brandon, I haven't. Last night—" Edith stopped, a frantic and nauseating feeling welling inside of her. "Mrs. Brandon—"

"Stewart's already gone out—left almost an hour ago to try to find him."

Edith bolted from the room to find her coat.

Mrs. Brandon called after her, "Milady, please, Stewart will find him! We don't need two of you—"

"Mrs. Brandon!" Stewart's shout echoed through the walls to the dining area. "Call Dr. Clarkson right away!"

There was a loud clatter and the two women ran for the door, seeing Anthony, unconscious, supported by Stewart—both of them wet and cold from the morning air.

Stewart struggled to get Anthony up the stairs, Edith helping as much as she could. Mrs. Brandon followed them into Anthony's room as they got him settled into bed. "Dr. Clarkson's on his way—said it might be as much as an hour though."

"It's all right," Stewart said. "Please bring some tea, Mrs. Brandon. I don't think he's up for anything except getting warm just now, but it'll be nice—"

"You could use some, I know," she said, and hurried out.

Edith sat by Anthony on the bed, pushing his hair back, feeling his forehead. "Where was he?"

Stewart removed his boots and sat in one of the chair opposite Anthony's bed near the hearth. "Way south, the far side of the orchard—passed out, milady. I don't know how long he'd been there," he said, his tone soft. "He was freezing, but I think with the weight of the two of us together…I don't know—maybe it helped warm him a bit." Stewart frowned. "I'll get the fire going. Excuse me, milady."

Dr. Clarkson arrived just over an hour later, assured everyone that Anthony was fine but needed to be kept warm and that they should watch for any fever. Edith took Dr. Clarkson aside downstairs and asked him a couple of questions—sought professional opinions on Anthony's psychological triggers—and listened intently to his responses and experiences. Discreet, Dr. Clarkson never asked Edith about her presence at Locksley.

Edith returned upstairs, looked in on Anthony, made only brief eye contact with Stewart, and cried as she left the room.

"Milady?" Stewart stood at her door and saw Edith packing her belongings. "What's wrong?"

"It's my fault, Stewart—it's my fault for pushing him like this and I have no desire to see him hurt any more…"

"Lady Edith, please, you can't leave—"

"It's killing him, Stewart! Can't you see it—I'm bringing up all of this horror from his past and he's not getting better, he's worse—"

"I beg to differ, milady—please. With all due respect, I think he needs you—and I do think he's getting better despite what's happened today."

Edith stopped, froze for a moment and stared at her almost-filled valise. She turned to Stewart, eyes heavy with emotion and exhaustion—a full-blown storm visible in her features. "I'm not certain of that…should I really? I love him, Stewart, and—for the first time—the very first time, I doubt my influence. I think he loves me, but I have no idea what to do; however, I refuse to hurt him further or drive him to this point again—he's almost died twice now in the past couple of weeks because of me! This project, as far as I'm concerned, is over! He was at least living without me in his life to harm him as everyone else has—even the doctors who thought they were helping him! My love can't seem to save him from this…terrible…illness? It is, isn't it? It's an illness that he can't seem to free himself from yet…and I'm not helping…"

Stewart took a step towards her. "Please, Lady Edith. If you do this—if you leave—then you're only sacrificing yourself for him just as he's doing now for you. He does need you. I beg you to recall, milady, that he was better during your engagement and he will be again—"

"But we weren't reliving his tortured past at that point, Stewart! He's doing that now—for me and this ridiculous writing—and he's lying in there in his bed practically comatose and probably on the verge of being terribly sick and, really, he's lucky you even found him—lucky to be alive, isn't he! But he's not lucky to be alive…not after what I've heard him describe, not knowing what he lived through…my God—" Edith whispered, breaking down, sobbing, shutting the valise violently and clasping it shut.

"Please believe me. Please, for his sake—because I know he's going to get better—I beg you, milady, please stay..."


	13. Chapter 13

Edith unpacked her valise, without another word, and took up vigil by Anthony's bedside, with Mrs. Brandon and Stewart checking on them every hour. She never left him, not after Stewart's declaration of faith in her. Holding his hand, checking for fever, brushing her favorite strands of his hair from his forehead, waiting for him—and then, when it wasn't enough, she settled beside him on the bed in an attempt to comfort him from the dreams he seemed to be suffering; in those moments of consolation, embracing him and feeling him struggling in the war within, Edith felt the guilt consume her again for putting him in this state, for pushing him beyond that precipice she was too—what? Blind to see? Insensitive to what was happening?

By nightfall, Anthony still hadn't fully awakened. Edith, bone-weary from the day, fell asleep beside him. Stewart woke her and urged her to return to her room for a full night's sleep, that Anthony appeared well enough with no fever and Stewart would stay with him. Edith protested at first. Stewart refused to back down, though, and they compromised, with Edith coming to see about him during the night to make sure they were both all right. Edith touched Anthony's cheek and her hand moved down his neck to his shoulder before she leaned and kissed him and then left to go to her room, with Mrs. Brandon following behind her and they said good night before the older woman descended the stairs just past Edith's room.

The next day passed much the same, with Edith taking Stewart's place and staying close to Anthony and Anthony sleeping and drifting to her and then slipping back again into disturbing dreams. By the time darkness settled again, Edith left and Stewart took his place in the chair near the hearth in Anthony's room and Edith left to seek much-needed rest just down the hall; Anthony had been without fever and in a tranquil sleep and Stewart assured her he would remain there with Anthony, as he had the night before. The waiting itself, the need to see he was all right, seemed to drain every bit of energy from them. Edith found herself alone in her room again, debating to go back to him, thinking of Anthony and what to say to him—how to heal him—once more as she drifted into an unsettled sleep.

* * *

Edith's eyes opened wide. Startled awake by a touch. There was no sound, but broken moonlight coming from her window and then she felt his hand on her cheek, a soft graze along her neck. Anthony had come to her and he was on his knees beside her bed.

"Anthony?"

She was met only with silence and a look of fear, despair shadowing his features. Edith sat up in bed, moving the covers to the side, nervously adjusting her nightgown, never taking her eyes from his.

"Anthony…are you all right?"

Sitting in front of him, leaning towards him, Edith saw his features and the trembling. He lifted his head and straightened himself, kneeling in front of her. Edith took his face in her hands. The alarm heightened as she saw the vulnerability and pain, the pleading as he looked up into her eyes. Edith's hands pushed back his damp hair; she noticed the way his pajama shirt seemed ill-fitting, but then realized it was because it was clinging to him. She placed a hand to his chest and felt the wetness of it.

"Anth—"

"I had to…make sure you were safe."

Even in the dim light, Anthony's features appeared pale—blanched from worry. "It was a nightmare, wasn't it?"

She only saw him nod slightly.

"I am safe. Here with you, I know I'm safe," Edith whispered.

Anthony's hand touched her face, held and then tucked a curl behind her ear as his eyes searched, assessing her. Edith didn't breathe; she let her hand drift down the front of his shirt and then dared to look into his eyes. When she did, she couldn't quite read his expression.

"We're safe—I'm safe, Anthony. Everything's all right, I promise."

When he still seemed uncertain, she reached to the top of his shirt. "You need dry clothes."

He didn't move. Edith began to unbutton his shirt—and he only watched her, paralyzed.

"Anthony?"

"I can't leave you here—alone. I need to know you're all right; they may return."

Edith nodded, uncertain as to if "they" referred to specific individuals or just apparitions Anthony feared. She watched him, continuing to remove his shirt, expecting resistance from him at any moment: a curt "I can do it" or for his eyes to close like they had before to shut her out of the moment…something. But Anthony remained still, watched her every move; she felt the intensity of it—something inexplicable in the silence… He was conscious this time as she removed his shirt—but he was disturbed, caught up in his nightmare and flashbacks as he tried to reconcile the present moment, his confusion obvious to her. She revealed his chest and tenderly slipped her fingers under the shirt, leaning in close to push it off his shoulders, smoothing his skin and feeling the chill begin to disappear with her touch, to remove his left arm from the sleeve and then, gingerly, the right. Anthony never moved, but she felt the anxious, uneven breaths. Edith convinced herself she was moving slowly over his skin not to frighten him, to be gentle, but she knew, too, that she was savoring the intimacy of it—and, in his current state, he was allowing it.

"Shall I get you a dry shirt or are you—"

Anthony shook his head.

"Stay with me then, Anthony. If you can't leave me alone, then stay with me."

Anthony hesitated, glanced around the room, his nerves on edge; until Edith took his hand and she sat back on her bed, and she pulled him down to sit beside her. She lay back down in the bed and replaced the covers as they were when she woke; she watched him, tried to reassure him and not threaten him with too much. Edith lay on her right side facing the door, and left the other side of the bed untouched for him.

"I don't want to hurt—disturb you…I just—protecting you is all—this chair by—"

"Come here, Anthony," she interrupted. "Lay beside me and rest. I want you…to protect me, but you have to rest, too."

Anthony stood and walked to the other side of the bed, gathered the covers and moved them back to climb in beside her. Edith waited a moment, heard him settle and take a breath lying inches from her. She paused, debated in her mind, and then shifted to nestle closer to him...almost touching.

"Edith?" His voice was hardly a whisper.

"I just need to be closer to you," she explained.

A moment later when she sighed, she felt his body shift to curl behind her and she closed her eyes, prayed and reached for his left hand to take it in hers. Their fingers joined; Edith heard him stifle a gasp. Not wanting to frighten him, she urged him, "Hold me."

Anthony let her move closer, let her press her back to his chest, her hand clasp his and trail it up her side, the front of her gown, and settle at her breast. When he finally exhaled, her shoulder and the angle of her neck were at his lips and when he drew a breath the scent of her filled him, comforted him.

Edith didn't calm until she sensed his body relax against her. As the minutes passed, she became aware of the involuntary flinching in his sleep—his left arm clutching her tighter to him. Edith smiled, sadness and hope tangling within, and closed her eyes, unable to brush the tears away as they slid across her cheek, afraid any movement might wake him…

* * *

A knock at the door and Edith's eyes flew open, adjusting to the early morning darkness. "Yes?"

"Milady, it's Sir Anthony—"

Edith immediately stepped from her bed and cracked the door to see Stewart, disheveled and frantic. "It's all right—he had a nightmare; he's…safe."

Stewart, reading between the lines, flashed a relieved smile. "I see. It's still quite early. I'm sorry to have disturbed then, milady. I'll just go to my room to sleep then, milady. Ring if you need me?"

"Of course. Thank you, Stewart."

Stewart backed away, nodded, and walked carefully in the dark corridor to the stairs.

When Edith turned, Anthony was sitting up in the bed, shirtless still, hair disheveled, and confusion married with terror etched on his face. She smiled. "Good morning."

"Edith, wh—"

"You had a nightmare and came to my room…"

After a moment, Anthony shook his head, remembering. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have intruded on your privacy—"

"Anthony, you weren't intruding; you were protecting me, worried for me," she said, walking to his side of the bed and sitting beside him to keep him from leaving. "And I don't care if this sounds completely improper: I want to wake up for the rest of my life with you like this, well, without the look of confusion or horror on your face, of course." Anthony's expression changed, vacillating from somewhere between pleasure and fright, a slight smile and wide eyes. "Yes, I said it. I love that you came to me and that we woke in the same bed; I love that when you sleep with me you're at peace and I love how, even in your sleep, you were holding me and pulling me closer to you. I know these past days have been difficult, but…" She finally took a breath and just stared into his blue eyes as they searched hers.

Anthony shook his head. "Edith, I'm too old and still crippled—these experiences have taken their toll on me and, if nothing else, have aged me even more. Please…you have to see it, particularly after last night, how incredibly pathetic and broken I am. I can never be the man you deserve."

"Broken, yes—pathetic, absolutely not. Knowing what I know now, I cannot imagine a more deserving man—and I will spend the rest of my stay here convincing you that you and I are perfect together, not perfect people but perfect together, and I think last night was the beginning of proving that. Just like in London, Anthony, we slept and you were so relaxed, so at ease…and last night you were finally holding me. There's so much we didn't—couldn't—know before and things are so different now. I was so stupid—"

"No, no—it wasn't you—"

"It was! And I made you feel even lower, less deserving, with my ridiculous comments—but, Anthony, it wasn't you! It was everything against us: my own youth and ignorance, the war, my family during our engagement…this terror from the war that you've kept inside so long that's only just now sort of surfacing… I'm so, so sorry…"

Anthony took her then, wrapped his arm around her and waited, her tears falling to his neck and shoulder as he held her. Edith calmed, adjusted the sleeve of her nightgown that had strayed and nervously smoothed all of the material covering her back in place before she looked into his eyes. "If you'll just give me a chance, perhaps…well, perhaps we can fix each other? Heal each other?" Seeing him tilt his head away from her, Edith leaned closer, touched his cheek, before she let it rest on his chest. "Please—for both of our sakes, will you just give us this chance?"

Anthony weighed her words, the possibilities as he looked at her and found only one way to answer them. "It's still dark…we should…perhaps try to rest a while longer—don't you think?"

When Edith opened her mouth to demand a more direct answer, Anthony's finger on her lips quieted her. She stood and walked back around to her side of the bed, and lay back down beside him. Anthony took a slow breath before convincing himself of how right it felt to have her beside him, and he moved to lay back on his side and pulled the covers up over them and this time, without her coaxing, let his hand caress her side, travel along her curves and let his arm wrap around her and settle with his fingers intertwined with hers at her breast. He kissed her shoulder and they sighed together and within minutes were asleep...


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: I just want to say how much I love writing for our fandom—a truly wonderful group who understands and loves E/A. Thank you for reading and reviewing! I appreciate the encouragement and support very much. _

_Brief mention of war in this chapter in a flashback..._

* * *

The sun hadn't fully risen yet, but already Stewart and Mrs. Brandon were up—the former softly whistling as he went about his work in the lower part of the home and the latter cooking a specially ordered breakfast for the sleeping lady upstairs.

As Anthony looked out on his estate from his library window, he held the coffee cup up to his lips and smiled as the picture of Edith sleeping came to his mind again. Anthony considered the way she'd moved closer to him in the night, wanted him to hold her, unafraid of the scars that marked him inside and out, or the unpredictable nature of his nightmares that had brought him to her in the late hours. He'd let her go years before, abandoned her and wanted more for her than what he could offer and, yet, here they were at Locksley—she'd come to him again and stayed by him. After what he'd done and the judgments her family had made, she still wanted him. This morning, watching the early light play upon the dew-covered grass, Anthony Strallan finally let himself believe it to be true and acknowledged within that there was nothing he wanted more—no, nothing he _needed _or _loved _more—in his life than the basic fact of waking beside Edith for the rest of his days and, if she was certain she wanted that, too, then he had to make it happen. He laughed to himself thinking of the words she'd used:_ I want to wake up for the rest of my life with you like this, well, without the look of confusion or horror on your face, of course…_ "Horror," he whispered, grinning. "God, no…that will be the furthest thing from now on, darling."

"Beg your pardon, Sir?"

"Nothing, Stewart," Anthony turned, smiling at his valet. "Just…" He didn't bother finishing.

Stewart surveyed Anthony's appearance, noting again that morning the return of color to his features and brightness of his eyes in the morning light—proof of life being present again. The valet knew his master well enough to know that nothing untoward had occurred in Edith's room when he woke and knocked on her door in the small hours of the morning after seeing Anthony's bed empty, but it was clear a change had taken place in Anthony and Stewart was relieved to see it. "You look much better this morning, Sir."

"Thank you, Stewart. And thank you again for my life. I don't know what I'd do without you—die outside, lost somewhere on my own property, I imagine, given my erratic behavior." Anthony half-smiled, a plea for forgiveness from his most loyal servant.

"Quite all right, Sir. I understand the behavior, perhaps more than most, Sir. Are you scheduled for any appointments this morning, Sir? Anything I need to prepare for you?"

"No, I've cancelled the next couple of days' worth unless there's some sort of emergency. I need to…"

Stewart waited, but Anthony seemed lost for a moment. "Need to take care of some things, Sir?"

Anthony eyed his valet and took another sip of coffee before nodding. "Yes, exactly. Take care of some things—one particularly important one, Stewart. I hope she doesn't mind if I wake her shortly, but I simply can't wait and I imagine Mrs. Brandon has her breakfast almost finished or at least close to being prepared."

Stewart smiled. "Of course, Sir."

Anthony returned the smile and watched his valet leave the library. For a moment, Anthony turned and looked again out the windows at the red-orange sunlight shimmering across the field…

_Early Winter, 1917- "Major Strallan! Major—you're safe now. We're getting you out of here… Control the bleeding! The stab wound is fresh—and careful of his arm, for God's sake!"_

_"It's completely ruined, sir, just hanging—"_

_"I know that. When you move him, be careful. We don't want the wound to worsen in transit. Major? Can you hear me, Sir?" _

_Major Strallan never comprehended a word of the soldier's frantic pleas; they remained the distant echoes infiltrating the dreams of his life replaying in his mind as he drifted between this world and the next. Anthony didn't come to at all as they carried him away on the makeshift stretcher in the field, nor was he responsive when he arrived in the military hospital. Anthony was in and out of consciousness until he'd been in London for almost three full days. _

_"He must have someone who should know he's here—someone related who can be contacted…"_

_"His sister was his next of kin and she passed earlier this year…her boy was killed last year in the trenches—there's no one…"_

_In the haze of the white that assaulted his eyes as he opened them, Anthony's fragile whisper hushed the room, "Edith…"_

_Days later, he couldn't remember any of what happened from when he first woke. His nurse smiled, tended his arm and shoulder, and told him the story of his awakening before she asked, "So, Major Strallan—who is Edith?"_

_Late April 1920—As they walked the estate amidst the soon-to-be flowering trees in the Locksley orchard, her hand in his, Anthony shared with Edith the story of his return and the hospital, that first conversation without the haunting war details; Edith kissed him and apologized and kissed him again… "What did you tell the nurse?" she'd asked._

_Anthony smiled. "I told her you were the woman I loved…but that you weren't mine, and that things hadn't worked out as I'd hoped."_

_"And what did she say?"_

_Anthony had leaned forward and rested his forehead on hers, caressing her cheek tenderly with the back of his hand. "She said 'I hope you find her again one day because I can tell she still means a great deal to you.'" He kissed her softly. "And I have, Edith. I've found you again—haven't I? Or I should say that you've found me?"_

_ "Yes—yes, we've found each other." Edith held him closer, pulling at the lapels of his long car coat as they leaned against a tree in the quiet of the late morning. "It's not just you, Anthony, who has gained a life—been given a chance to live…" She brushed her lips against his, her eyes closed. _

_"Edith? What do you mean?"_

_"The night you proposed," she said, one hand straightening his coat and then finding his wind-blown hair, stroking it back in place. "You said I've given you back your life," she began to shake her head, "but that's true of you—for me, I mean. I hope you see it? There's so much we can do together now because we'll be married and you see me for the person I really am—"_

_"Because I love you, Edith, and I want you to have whatever you wish. You may desire more than what's here and I'm not sure—not entirely certain that you see—"_

_"Shhh, Anthony Strallan—I already have what I've wished for right here with you. Anthony, I love you. I don't need the rest of it...I…just…want…" As Edith tried to finish, Anthony leant down and kissed her—the sweetest of interruptions—as the kiss deepened, she pulled him closer, her arms moving down his chest and inside the billowing coat to bring them even nearer to one another…so close… _

_He kissed her cheek and then down her neck, murmuring, "We should go back. I have to return you on time or they'll worry…" _

_"No, please don't stop…"_

_"Edith—" He did stop and when he looked at her, he saw the warmth and love disappear as she thought of being returned to Downton. The look of resignation on Edith's face as she hugged him tighter, her cheek against his chest, and then the hurt in her eyes as she pleaded with him—it was seared into his memory. _

_"I want to stay with you—we never get time like this alone; besides, they don't worry about me. It's not as if they'll send out a search party…" Knowing he wouldn't change his mind and risk offense, she relented and attempted a sad smile, "But, yes…I know…I know it isn't long now…we'll be together always…" _

Anthony pictured her expression from that afternoon—the pain that arrested her happiness in being with him at Locksley—and he swore to himself if he had known what her father would say to him that very night in denying his blessing, if he had known how the constant looks and veiled disapproval that had always been present and persisted in striking him so deeply and caused him to question everything about his own capabilities and the two of them together—if he had known how all of it in sum would force him to choose for her and derail them both, then he would have married her that instant if only to keep that look from ever shadowing her features again. Then, he closed his eyes and remembered how she'd looked lying beside him when he first awakened this morning…how she probably still looked now as her breakfast was being readied and she slept…and he couldn't help himself. Anthony gulped the last of his coffee and set the cup down on the saucer at his study. In a swift movement, he sat down at his desk and composed a brief note in his journal and then read it back to himself. Satisfied, he replaced his pen in the drawer and went to see Mrs. Brandon about Edith's tray.

* * *

Edith woke once more to a knock at the door, but sunlight had made its way into her room by then and she frowned when she felt the chill and saw her bed was empty.

"Come in." The door opened and Mrs. Brandon was carrying a tray filled with Edith's breakfast. Anthony stood waiting just behind her outside in the hall, already dressed in his customary button-down, cotton shirt and trousers and clean-shaven.

"Good morning, milady. Sir Anthony said you might prefer breakfast in bed this morning." Mrs. Brandon's smile barely contained her joy at this request of her master's.

Edith, surprised, turned and arranged the pillows to sit up in bed, smoothed her gown and ran nervous fingers through her tousled curls. "Thank you, Mrs. Brandon," she said, slightly flushed, felt Anthony's gaze and her cheeks flashed to the deepest crimson as Mrs. Brandon arranged her tray.

"Enjoy your breakfast, milady."

"Thank you," Edith said, "I'm certain I will, Mrs. Brandon."

The cook nodded briefly to Sir Anthony on her way out and he watched her depart down the stairs before turning back to look at Edith.

"Are you going to join me?" Edith asked, feeling self-conscious as he watched her. She shielded her face slightly, pushed a curl behind her ear before meeting his eyes.

"If you'd like the company—"

Edith smiled, her face still a shade of rose. "I would, please." She placed her hand on the empty side of the bed where he had slept and his eyes settled there for what seemed a full minute before he finally walked to it and removed his boots, shifted onto the bed as she set his pillow up behind him and moved it closer to her side to force him to lounge nearer to her. After taking her first delightful bite and sipping her coffee, Edith said, "Thank you for this luxury…"

"I hope we didn't wake you too soon—"

"No, no, it's quite all right. Rather thoughtful, really. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, thank you. I slept better and feel stronger now that I've eaten and had a bit of coffee."

Edith devoured the delicious food and Anthony only watched and smiled as she finished eating and dabbed her mouth with the napkin. She set the tray just outside her door and returned to the bed to sit beside Anthony. "I didn't realize I was that hungry, but these past few days I haven't really eaten either. I've been—"

"Worried for me?"

"Yes…terribly worried," she whispered. "I almost left because of what I was putting you through—"

Anthony's hand brushed away the beginnings of falling tears as he spoke, "No, no, my darling. I'm glad you didn't leave, Edith. It's not you—please, you must never believe it's you. The war—talking about it, yes—but I think it was because…because I'd never been able to talk _through _the experience or share the journals with anyone really, not like I have these past days with you. And last night, just as in London, you were there for me the way no one else could be, Edith." He held her chin and looked at her intently. "You're perfect."

Edith stared first at his lips and then into his eyes. "Say that again, please?"

"You're perfect—and you always have been to me, sweet one."

"Anthony? Again—" Edith touched his lips, traced them as he leaned closer to her.

"You're perfect and you always have been…I love you, Edith."

Edith shifted on top of him, kissed him, questioning, gauging his reaction. When Anthony met her kiss with a delicate one in answer, his arm wrapped around her and pulled her flush to him, Edith encircled his neck with her arms and eagerly responded to his touch, his lips parting for her…

* * *

Violet Crawley, exhausted from tea with Cousin Isobel earlier in the afternoon, donned her glasses and opened the post from her daughter, Rosamund.

_Edith missed dinner with me this week and this article was brought to my attention the following day. Her servant said she'd left town for a short while…_

Attached to the brief letter was the article from _The Sketch_. As soon as the Dowager's eyes took in the name, Major Anthony Strallan, she drew a long breath and held it as she stared at the paper and her eyes settled on her granddaughter's name in bold at the top. She closed her eyes for a long moment and then, forcing herself to continue, Violet read the entire column. Taking off her glasses, her expression taut, she stared at the scattered drops of rain on the window pane and then looked beyond them into the intensifying downpour...


	15. Chapter 15

**Ch. 15**

**'M' rating for safety…**

The unseasonably warm temperatures that allowed Edith and Anthony to picnic earlier in the week with only the disturbance of a chill wind slicing through their coats disappeared with the pouring rains. By late evening, the freezing air settled over northern England and a blanket of snow covered the grounds of Locksley and every other part of Yorkshire within just a few hours…

The electricity went out shortly after dinner. The library and the corridors of the house were reduced to darkened spaces with the light of roaring fires in the rooms and flickering candles along the walls and on the tables.

Edith stood by the window in the library and awaited Anthony's return from seeing about the estate. When he did arrive a few minutes later, he pulled her close and they stared into the tempered darkness lit by the moon and the brightened grounds of white. The snow drifted down still, quiet and heavy with moisture.

"Everything all right?" she murmured, leaning into his chest.

"Yes, I think so, though we're not certain yet of the amount of accumulation. It may affect some of the tenant buildings—the weight of it. Most have been modernized and reinforced, but there are a few yet still in disrepair. We'll know more in the morning."

The two lingered by the window until the draft of cold led Anthony to take Edith's hand and they sat together on the couch now moved even closer to the fire.

"Happy, sweet one?"

"Happier than I've been in years," Edith whispered.

Anthony breathed deeply, savored the feel of her against his shoulder as she wrapped herself around him. Her leg curled with his, her arms holding him closer as she rested her head at his shoulder, let her lips brush the skin above his collar.

* * *

They had spent the morning and early afternoon in bed; Edith held him as they lay together. She was reclined against her pillows with him in front of her, cradled with his head at her breast, her arms along his shoulders and chest embracing him from behind and her legs mingling with his much longer ones to the end of the bed. With her touch, her hands and voice surrounding him, Anthony held nothing back. There was no whitewashing or delicate recounting of facts to continue to shield her from harsh truths-only his confessing of the worst sufferings of his wounds and the war and the admission of her constant presence as his deliverance in the darkest moments in captivity and later in the hospitals. The tears shed this time cleansed and simultaneously opened and closed the war-torn past and, then, together through strained whispers recounted the engagement, her family, and that fateful day. Instead of apologies, like what occurred in Edith's flat in London, Edith simply held him tighter and Anthony traced her fingers with his before kissing each in turn and then her palms. The tranquil quiet of their breathing and the pattern of the freezing rain outside settled until Anthony shifted to look up into her eyes.

"I've dreamt of you like this so often…"

"Me too…" she said, her fingers stroking his hair.

Anthony thought for a long moment. "Even when you were with Michael?"

At the mention of his name, Edith cringed. "It was never what he wanted you to think. He was jealous of you…my heart…I couldn't let you go and he knew it." She saw the skeptical look, the confusion in the quirk of his brow. "It's true. I mentioned you on occasion—more frequently than I ought to have, I'm sure—and each time he'd charm me by listening politely, but it was always just there beneath the surface. I saw it in him, heard it in this particular edge that he had in his voice…the way he said your name…that sort of thing."

"So you never lov—"

Edith shook her head, emphatic. "I never loved him and, Anthony, we never—"

Anthony's hand swiftly moved and his fingertips muted her protests before tenderly coaxing her towards him.

* * *

Anthony pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over the two of them as they now sat in front of the fire. Edith gripped him tighter.

"Anthony?"

"Hmm?"

"Marry me."

He smiled and stroked her hair. "As soon as it's safe to leave here and fetch the vicar—is that soon enough?"

Edith sighed, relieved.

Anthony almost laughed as her head fell against his shoulder.

"Thank God," she whispered. "Can we marry here?"

"I suppose we can—not at the church or in town—?"

Edith hedged, fidgeted with the buttons on his shirt. "I don't want anyone to know."

An unsettled feeling crept into Anthony's insides. When his silence continued, Edith looked up at him and saw his face had become a bit paler even in the glow of the candlelight on the nearby table.

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure that's what we should do, darling. Don't you—"

"Anthony, I don't care what society dictates we should do any longer. I don't care if you have my family's approval or if Papa gives his blessing or if we're—" She stopped and saw the pained look in his features. "But you do care, don't you? Anthony?"

Taking a deep breath, Anthony began, "I do, yes. I would be lying if I said I didn't. But I suppose I should accept that they'll never approve…nothing's changed, after all, except that I'm even older now."

"As am I," she said with the temper of steel in her voice. "And that much more removed from _them _and their disapproval." Fear caused her to go cold, the image of him walking away from her at the church flashed in her mind and she stared at him, waiting. "Anthony, you will marry me anyway? You do want—"

"Shhh—of course, I want to. As soon as the roads become passable, sweet one. We'll make the arrangements tomorrow—I promise."

As they readied to retire for the night, Mrs. Brandon and Stewart bid them good night, and Anthony took Edith's hand once more. The chill in the air followed them down the barely lit hall and Anthony stopped in front of Edith's guest room door.

As he looked at her in the shadows, he spoke softly. "Stewart's prepared the fire…you should be warm enough, but..."

Edith placed her hands at his shoulders and smoothed his shirt collar and then the fabric that covered his chest, pausing tantalizingly at each button. "And if I'm not…warm enough?" She lifted her eyes to meet his as her hand settled over his pounding heart and she heard him swallow.

Some syllables were lost as he replied hoarsely that he would be just down the hall if she required any…attentions.

"When we're married, I won't have to worry about being cold on a snowy night, will I?"

"Absolutely not." Anthony's eager and strong affirmation brought a grin to Edith's lips. Suddenly, uncertain though, he stammered, "I mean—if you become cold tonight even, I wouldn't want—"

"Good night, Anthony," she murmured, teasing him. As she stood on tip-toes to lean closer, she whispered, "If the fire's not enough, I'll be sure to find…a way…" Edith's ardent kiss, combined with her searing touch, proved enough to warm them both before she left him standing in the dark, eyes closed, and still feeling the heat of her as he heard the door closed in front of him.

* * *

Lying awake later that night, Anthony thought of nothing but Edith and his mind filled with images o f her in various states of undress. He tossed and turned, never nearing any state close to sleep. Frustrated with the distance between them and worried for her—yes, he'd convinced himself that she might _actually _still be cold in her room because _perhaps _the fire had indeed gone out as she slept—Anthony walked to his door and reached for the handle and stopped. _I shouldn't,_ he thought_. She's fine. Stewart does an excellent job with the hearths. There's no need to worry about her—she's warm and sleeping peacefully…beautifully beneath the sheets and…_

The door handle turned without his hand having touched it.

Anthony, startled, stepped back from it just as Edith's figure appeared, apparition-like in the darkness in front of him. When she touched him, she was real in every sense. He couldn't speak—still stunned at her presence in his room.

"I can't sleep," she began before brushing her lips against his. She tried to explain further between soft-yet-urgent kisses, but he didn't hear her. "Too cold…alone…need you…beside me…"

"But we can't—"

Edith stopped him, knew what he would say in protest. She took his hand, led him back to his bed, even as she surveyed his bedroom for the first time in the shadows of the firelight. By his bed, she turned to him, saw the intensity in his blue eyes as his attention remained rapt on the silk of her gown, she pleaded, "Sleep with me, at least…I know we both want more than that, but—"

"Yes, yes we do…" Came his spellbound reply…

Edith smiled, he heard it in her whisper, "Come to bed…"

Edith lay facing the window and Anthony took his place behind her on his side, straightening the sheet and blankets over the two of them before yielding and melding his body to the softer curves of hers.

"With the weather and all, perhaps it will be only a few days and this will be _our_ bed…" Edith ventured.

Anthony felt a pain in his throat as he swallowed, felt the tightening in his chest thinking back to all the nights before this one. "Already _ours_, my love…you've been here for years…"

Anthony kissed her neck and shoulder. Edith tilted her head, her curls falling away to the pillow, her skin exposed further for him as his lips lingered over her and he clutched her tighter to him. Hearing his words and feeling his body against hers, finally, she held his hand to her chest as she shut her eyes at the sting. "Oh yes…years…I've been yours…"

* * *

The snow continued through the night, inches gathering and winds building drifts all over the county. In the early morning hours just before sunrise, Stewart's knock at the door woke Anthony. The two whispered in the corridor so as not to wake Edith.

"The Meads are here—an outbuilding's collapsed, Sir."

"I'll dress and go back with them to assess the damage and make sure they have suitable arrangements from the inclement weather. Make sure Mrs. Brandon prepares a good meal for them while I dress, please, Stewart."

"Of course, Sir."

Anthony dressed and kissed Edith, still sleeping beneath the blankets.

* * *

When Edith woke a short while later, Anthony was gone and she dressed and went downstairs to find breakfast already cooked and the house eerily quiet. Mrs. Brandon let her know Anthony was out tending to the Mead family residence and that he would return later.

Edith chose to wait in the library, reading through the remainder of Anthony's journals and working on whatever she could manage of the project in a fictionalized form. Anthony arrived after almost two hours and was nearly frozen, but he took tea and dressed in dry clothes and warmed himself by the fire under the blanket with Edith.

"I'll have go to back out there in a couple of days after the snow's melted away—the temperatures are already rising. Thank goodness." Anthony kissed her. "We have a ceremony that's rather important…"

Edith curled closer to him. "It's already the first of April—an April wedding then?"

"Yes, as soon as possible, I believe, is what my love requested. And here at Locksley—by the orchard, perhaps, if it's warm enough? I'd hate to have you freezing outside in a formal gown," he said, smiling.

Edith flashed a playful grin and cocked a sultry, teasing brow. "I shouldn't mind freezing at all as long as you make sure we're under covers and warm afterwards…"

Anthony blushed scarlet. "I should think the snow is melting quite nicely…a few more days should prove soon enough to…make you mine, Lady Edith Strallan," he managed, playing along with the flirtation and relishing the sound of saying her name aloud as he'd wanted to do for so long.

* * *

The next day more snow melted and the third proved even warmer, with the late snowfall accumulation damaging a second outbuilding on the furthest reach of the estate. Anthony left and once again returned wet and muddy from the precipitation on the grounds and the work he did while visiting with the tenants and workers. The roads proved better on the seventh day, though and, while Anthony was out managing and tending to the reconstruction, Edith lost herself once more in his journals.

_Autumn, 1920—I dreamt of her again…how does one get over the loss of such love? Maud's death was more than enough, but I never loved her like this… How many months have passed? She's gone—London—and I'm left waking at night shrieking insanely in the confines of my rooms with these war terrors, shaking from the exertion and fear, wishing she were here to reassure me, to comfort me—God, how I miss her touch, her voice, her laugh—and yet, at the same time, in my most logical and selfless moments recognizing my reluctance for her to be exposed to any of it. I'm so broken that the idea of her seeing me in such a condition terrifies me all the more… I was right to walk away—never to expose her to such calamity, a lost cause I am, no doubt. My age alone—God, how the captivity and hospitalization aged me! The war's done me in. How did I live? Why…why am I still here… The war, the hospital and the terrors, and then the altar and the humiliation I put her through…it's enough that I wonder some days if I should do as Keller and Stone and even Lehrer and others who continue to haunt me did…a simple bullet to end every—"_

The library door opened, startling Edith from the journal that had her transfixed and the sorrow of Anthony's words as he contemplated ending his life.

Stewart entered and his expression was unusually grave as he looked at Edith and announced, "The Dowager Count—"

"She knows who I am."

* * *

Anthony, frigid from the day's work and the supervision of the early attempt at construction on the newer buildings at the edge of Locksley, stamped his boots and rushed towards the library before Stewart could stop him—unable to contain his excitement at coming home to his Edith and he called for her before he opened the door.

"Edith? Darling, the roads look much better and tomorrow I must—" His flushed cheeks and brilliant smile at seeing her there shone for a moment before his eyes fell upon the guest in the other chair and his face registered the presence before him.

Edith sat quietly in the chair opposite her grandmother with a tray of tea and cakes between them. Anthony felt a new kind of chill as he tried to smile politely through the shock, the structured habit of gentlemanly manners breaking through his panic.

"Lady Grantham—how nice—"

Violet held up her gloved hand and her eyes narrowed, examined his damp, slightly soiled clothes and weather-beaten work boots evident of his day in the sodden fields. "I suggest you clean up and join us—we'll be waiting."

"Of course. Yes, of course," he said, his eyes looking over his clothes and he blushed, ashamed and embarrassed, in front of her. "There was some work to be done. I apologize. I'll change, of course, and return shortly." He stared at Edith for a long moment and Edith stood to walk to him, to talk with him before he walked out and upstairs alone but Violet stopped her.

"Sit, Edith. He'll return—he doesn't require your assistance."

Edith gazed at him, her eyes full of pain—remembering the last lines of his journal she'd read before her grandmother arrived. She willed him to know how she felt, how much she wanted to run to him and tell him everything she knew, but her feet remained planted, still in place where she'd stood. Anthony, still by the door, confused at this sudden intrusion by Violet, uncertain how she knew about Edith, and utterly alarmed as to what to expect from the coming confrontation, saw Edith take a deep breath and nod to him across the room. Her eyebrows rose slightly and she opened her mouth to speak, but no words came…

Anthony moved then, stepping to the door before he heard her cry, "Anthony!"

He turned to see her—an expression of tears and a smile at once. A promise. Something in him changed, shifted imperceptibly. In the softest of voices, as though Edith were the only one in the world at that moment to hear him, his eyes never leaving hers, Anthony said, "I love you, my sweet one—I'll be right down."

Violet looked up at Anthony's words and noted the unfamiliar tone of his voice. In all her years knowing him—since he was a boy—something struck her about the timbre and consequently, the two of them gazing at one another now and she looked—from Edith to Anthony and back again—before staring at her tea, suddenly very aware of her trespass…

* * *

_A/N: Apologies for the delay in posting anything. I've been out of the loop with fanfic reading and reviewing lately. Please forgive me. Thankfully, my husband is finally on the mend after medical complications that got pretty scary there for a while. Thank you for understanding and for R/R. _


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews and well wishes for my husband! It means so much to me and I honestly can't thank you enough... I do hope you enjoy this installment and, as always, please do let me know what you think. _

* * *

Part I

Edith fidgeted, lightly tapping her fingers on her teacup as she studied the deep purple of her grandmother's frock and matching hat. Violet exhaled, glancing about the room between sips of tea attempting to control her annoyance at her granddaughter's nerves.

"Stop."

At the sound of her grandmother's command, Edith started. "So sorry."

While Anthony had been out, Violet had questioned Edith as a barrister would—to the point and refusing the opportunity for her granddaughter to elaborate or otherwise defend herself. Now, waiting for Anthony's return, the two sat in anxious silence. Edith remained in a state of uncertainty, fluctuating between the distant hope of having gained an ally and the despair that Violet would hold steadfastly to her rejection of the idea of marriage to Anthony. Edith continued to convince herself that her family's approval didn't matter, but she knew it meant a great deal to Anthony—and she also knew the road would be less hazardous if they had her father's approval. Anthony needed it, or so he thought, and if they could all talk it out perhaps things would be better. In the past days Edith had witnessed for herself what the weight of honour and responsibility did to Anthony; she realized that he wouldn't be able to let go of her family's disapproval even as he chose her over them because it would linger quietly unresolved and fester… The lines from his journal flashed in her mind—_a simple bullet_… Edith knew him now, how deeply he felt for her and how affected he was by everything that had happened. No, this situation had to heal all of them, and it had to happen now.

* * *

Anthony's hand shook as he combed his hair. Stewart had helped him change after his shower, giving him a fresh shave as well and then assisting him with a tie. Anthony's nerves ate away at his insides as he looked at himself in the mirror: dark tweed slacks, white cotton button-down, dark tie, and his black sling. _Edith. Our wedding. Edith. Our wedding_. He repeated those phrases over and over in his head.

"Will that be all, Sir?" Stewart interrupted.

Anthony nodded, "Yes, thank you, Stewart."

"Good luck, Sir," Stewart offered.

Anthony gave him a half-smile and a nod, but as Stewart departed and Anthony studied himself once more the same demons filled him: the sling, his age, Edith deserving so much more… The memory of the long walk up the aisle of the church—so controlled as the splintering pain in his chest gave way to full-blown chasms of darkness within—until the sound of the doors closing behind him signaled the end: the shattering of everything he dreamt possible before the garden party, everything that should have been while he was at war, everything he'd denied himself for so long afterwards out of reverence for Edith and what she deserved out of life—all of it within reach and then collapsing before him as he committed the very sin he swore to her he'd never wished to do…hurt her, push her away…

"No—it won't happen again," he whispered. He gripped the vanity with his hand and closed his eyes. "Lady Edith Strallan…" he said aloud. _Lady Edith Strallan_… He smiled then as the repeating of her name scattered and vanquished the demons and he opened his eyes. "Sir Anthony and Lady Edith Strallan…and that is all." Without another moment of hesitation, Anthony walked out of his room, touched his tie out of habit to assure himself it was straight, and made his way to the library.

* * *

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Lady Grantham," Anthony announced as he entered.

The Dowager watched him carefully with her sharp eyes. "Not at all. Mrs. Brandon still makes the most delicious cakes."

Anthony smiled, coming around to Edith on the far side of the seating arrangement.

"Hello," Edith's greeting was met with a warm smile from Anthony.

"Hello, darling," he said, kissing Edith chastely on the cheek as she rose from the chair, straightening her dark green skirt and cream sweater. "You look lovely."

Violet cleared her throat, effectively bringing the meeting to order. "Edith and I have been catching up a bit. Anthony, I'm sure there's no need for me to point out that nothing's changed in the past two years. Has it?" Her matter-of-fact tone willed Anthony to acknowledge the harsh truth.

"No, I suppose nothing has—"

"Granny, it has—"

"Not now, Edith. Let him finish."

"Lady Grantham, in the obvious ways—my arm and age—I suppose nothing has changed; however, everything else is…different now."

"Yes, well, with her staying here at your home in secret—"

"If you'll permit me, Lady Grantham, please, Edith was only—"

"I will not. You know better, Anthony Strallan, and I am no fool. Edith says she was here doing research for her writing, that this column is only an introductory piece—that there is to be more? From what transpired when you arrived earlier there's more than just _research _going on here. Just the looks you two have for one another—I'm old, not blind and deaf."

"I intend to marry Edith—"

"And not walk away this time?"

"You tore us apart, Granny, literally separated us at the altar when I tried to talk to him—!"

"Only after he made it clear he was finally in his right mind, which apparently has deserted him again."

"You have no idea about him—"

"I've known him his entire life, Edith, which is far longer than you've been taking breaths, my dear—"

"Not like me—you certainly don't know him like I do!" Edith countered fiercely.

A beat passed as Violet tilted her head with knitted brow and realized the possible implications of the statement—of Edith _knowing _Anthony, particularly during this unrestricted, secretive time together.

"You don't mean—!"

Anthony's thoughts seized on her words, bristled at his honour being put into question. "No, no—not at all—Lady Grantham! I would never—and you should know me better. Edith doesn't mean—"

Edith's voice quieted, her hand reaching for Anthony's to clarify her statement. "Yes, I do know him—what he's been through, what he's like. You never gave him a chance—"

"I did—I invited him to tea that Christmas _for you_—"

"And what happened then, Granny? You saw his arm and that was all! He's so much more than that—to me, he's so much more!"

"Lady Grantham, I love Edith—I always have. I'm finished with this proprietary charade of doing the 'honourable' thing, which is to continually break her heart and my own and send her off to the likes of what she found in London. She tried to move on with her life and did and has made quite a name for herself in writing, which I hope she continues here at Locksley. I don't deserve her, but I will love her and respect her and I will not hurt her again—"

"Even by dying too soon and leaving her a young widow?"

"Granny!"

"Edith, everyone's been dancing around it since before the war—your mother and I were uncertain of what to make of the two of you then, though it made more sense then—but the reality of the _present _must be addressed in front of you rather than all of us refusing to confront you directly with it and remarking behind your backs or—"

"Or undermining us with remarks _to our faces_ as you did to Anthony when we were engaged before?"

Violet's eyes lit, knowing her granddaughter was right, that the verbal assaults years prior must have contributed to Anthony's decision—the one that proved Violet right in the end, at least if _that day _had been the end of it. "Edith, you will be left a nurse to him in his old age. Is that really what you want?"

"Is that the worst of it—a nurse? Not an _old man's drudge_ as you told Papa?" Edith's eyes were now wet with tears as she stared at Violet, who looked away. Anthony felt Edith's hand tighten on his own as she continued. "Yes, Granny, I heard the whispers after that day…the confessions behind closed doors about what I _should _do with my life…how Anthony did the right thing, the honourable thing…leaving himself to die alone at Locksley in his old age while I went off to London _hoping _I _might _find someone as _deserving _as this man is of me—someone who will love me as much as I love him."

Violet frowned and looked once more down into her tea cup, unable to suppress the emotion now threatening in her own eyes. "We worry for you, Edith—we only want what's best is all."

Edith glanced at Anthony, and then took a deep breath before looking again at Violet. The two women, alike in so many ways, observed one another. A half-smile formed on Edith's face as she witnessed her grandmother's affection for her finally surface in a sympathetic smile of her own as Edith stated her final case. "Anthony is what's best for me, Granny. He's quite independent, not to mention that you came here today to find that he was out working, which is more than I can say for Papa or any other gentleman I know. He's in excellent physical condition; his father and grandfather lived well into their 80's, if you recall, and I intend to take quite good care of him in every way, if you must know, because—" She looked back to Anthony. "Because he means everything to me and you should know that I do not need Papa's approval to marry him—and will happily do so without it."

Hearing those words and looking to Anthony, Violet's eyebrows rose. "Anthony Strallan, do you intend to talk to my son about this wedding?"

A beat.

"Because the Anthony Strallan I know wouldn't marry any woman without proper permission being granted…if I recall, my son's disapproval in the guise of a half-hearted blessing drove you from her before. I can assure you his position remains the same—particularly given the embarrassment you put our family through when you _jilted _her. Do you intend then to talk to my son before going through with it?"

Anthony looked at Edith. "How about this very afternoon? Given the roads are passable enough for you to drive here, Lady Grantham, I imagine the road to Downton just as clear." Anthony stood and rang for Stewart before taking his place beside Edith and reaching for her hand. "Ready, my love?"

Stuttering a bit with her breath and attempting to put her tea back on the tray while still looking up at Anthony, Violet challenged him, needing to see his strength and certainty where there wasn't any prior to now, before she conceded: "And if he refuses?"

"I imagine we will be invited to fewer dinners at Downton, which will be a shame given I wish to see only peace between us all and will try to do what is necessary to attain it," Anthony said. In a lighter tone, he added, "But, truthfully, Edith and I prefer it here anyway. Shall we?" Stewart now appeared at the door and Anthony nodded to him. "Stewart—ready the Rolls, please. We're departing for Downton."

"Of course, Sir."

Violet took her cane in hand and, with Anthony standing by her and gripping her elbow to support her, she stood. When she looked up at him, she paused, entranced by the clear blue eyes looking back at her, and she seemed to measure the change she saw in him. "How long has she been here with you?"

"A little more than a week," Anthony whispered, fearful of her reaction.

"Not long. Hmm." Violet considered what she'd seen and said aloud without thinking, "You've always been such a gentleman, I know. It's taken until now for me to see how…" She caught herself, looking to Edith first and then back up at Anthony. "You two seem quite good for one another, I admit. I only pray it will last and not leave you with regrets years from now when the romance of it all fades."

The words hung for only a moment before Anthony smiled and offered Violet his left arm. "I have found that real romance—real love—doesn't fade, Lady Grantham. Edith was with me while I was a prisoner in the darkest reaches of Hell where everything is in stark relief—the war and hospital—and she's been here every day and night since that wretched afternoon when I left believing I was right in choosing the rest of her life for her…nothing faded, I assure you, and not on her part either from what she's shared with me. But, I daresay, in each other's absence we became stronger and, together now, we will not be separated again."

Violet's eyebrows arched and she leaned into Anthony slightly as they walked to the door of the library slowly, he letting her set the pace. "I suppose we'll see soon enough if you can convince Robert of that…"


	17. Chapter 17

Stewart drove slowly, acutely aware of the road conditions after the storm. Anthony kept his eyes on the car in front of him: Lawrence carefully maneuvering the vehicle along the road to Downton as Edith and Violet sat stone-still in the back. Anthony stared at Edith's silhouette and smiled, thinking of her strength and the steel he saw in her character facing her grandmother.

"I'm going to marry her, Stewart," he said.

His valet, sometime-chauffeur, and always-loyal man allowed himself a grin. "I'm glad to hear it, Sir."

"Do you think Locksley is ready for her?"

"I don't mean to overstep, Sir, but…Locksley's been awaiting her for some time."

Anthony only nodded. After a moment, he leaned forward and patted the younger man's shoulder. "Thank you, Stewart."

"For what, Sir?"

"Everything."

* * *

"I don't know how this will go," Violet said.

"I do."

Violet turned her sharp eyes on her granddaughter. "I suppose you mean either way you're going to marry him?"

Edith's head didn't move from her straight-ahead stare. "Yes."

"You do know," her voice softened, "despite all of the romantic notions, that this isn't a good idea—there's no happy end for you two, Edith."

"No?"

Violet raised her chin and shook her head slowly. "No, my dear. I'm afraid not."

"I love him. I want a life—no matter how long it may last—with him." Edith took a breath and looked directly at her grandmother, emotion burning in her golden brown eyes. "Haven't we all learned by now how quickly life passes…how precious the time we have together is—Anthony and I know it and we've waited long enough."

Violet counted the years in her head, the eight years previous when she'd first heard the notion of Anthony and Mary, but then saw him with Edith, recalled the meeting at a party during which he made a point of asking after Lady Edith. Violet had known then—just as she knew now. "And what will you do? Run an estate? Write? Have a family? Which?"

"All of it." Edith smiled. "Anthony and I want it all and he won't stop until I have everything I desire…"

"All of it? You can't possibly do it all—no woman can—even _modern _women," Violet huffed.

"Then the two of us together will do it all and he can be my partner in everything; besides, he loves that I write, we both love Locksley and doing what's best for the estate, and we both want children. Yes, we'll have it all."

"I miss the days when things were simpler and roles were…better defined; everyone knew their parts."

Edith laughed. "Perhaps we're just enamored of the opportunity to play more than just one part, Granny—wife, mother, writer…they all sound wonderful to me. Besides, you started this."

"Me? What are you talking about?"

"You're the one who set me off after the…altar incident; you told me I had a brain."

Violet smiled, somewhat begrudging. "Indeed, I admit it. And yet your heart has brought you here again…so I'm not sure what sort of success I had after all."

"Granny, if you think it's only my heart that's in love with Anthony, I apologize, but you're absolutely wrong. He's so kind and intelligent and we love just chatting together or reading or…just _being _together. I don't know how to describe it. We have so much in common and I need that—someone I can chat to and be excited to talk about the world and the mundane and…all of it! And that's Anthony with me; he's perfect. We're perfect together."

Violet only shook her head. She stared silently out the window as they turned into the drive. Before Lawrence came around for her door, Violet patted Edith's knee without making eye contact. "Good luck."

* * *

Once inside Downton, following the quite-stern-looking Carson to the library, Edith held Anthony's arm and whispered softly as he leaned down towards her. "No matter what happens—I love you, my dear husband."

The words jarred him. He paused and stood still, unable to take his eyes off of her even as Violet and Carson continued down the corridor. "And I love you, Lady Edith—"

"Strallan." Edith smiled and kissed him. "We're almost there." She squeezed his arm tighter to her body and they walked again in stride to the entrance where Carson awaited them, and inside where they could already hear Robert's reaction to Anthony's arrival and his mother's news.

* * *

"Absolutely not!" Robert roared. "Nothing's changed…except he's even older now! Need I remind everyone the embarrassment he caused our family?" Robert thrust his hand in the air toward Anthony, his face crimson with anger.

Cora sat, composed, but smiling thinly from Robert to a silent Mary who stood by the window and then to Violet, who sat by the fire and remained unreadable-but-weary; she glanced at Anthony and Edith, bearing the onslaught together standing with arms woven by Robert's desk. Cora sought a chance to intervene and calm her disturbed husband, but saw little opportunity in his current state of bluster. "Robert, please—"

"No, Cora, I let it go on too long before and your _mother _of all people _defended_ the two of them—you, Anthony, she stood up for you and what did you do? Humiliated us all!"

"You disapproved, Lord Grantham—you said so yourself. You knew it was wrong—"

"And it still is! You made the case for me, Anthony!"

"Papa!"

Edith held tighter to Anthony's arm, her eyes wide and glaring at her father. A long silence ensued as Robert paused and then finally made eye contact with his middle daughter, obstinate and resolute.

Seeing the futility of it all, Anthony took her arm, his hand sliding the length of it to clasp her hand and weave her fingers with his own. His eyes looked from Edith's back to Robert, who had turned away from them and stared into the fire. Anthony's measured and soft timbre contrasted so clearly with Robert's that the Crawleys all unconsciously leaned closer to him to hear him. "It's my arm. The saddest part is none of it had to happen. None of this." Anthony's eyes glistened. "I wanted to marry her that summer—when I first returned from the council meetings—I had it all planned and..." He only glanced to Mary, left her to fully realize his main point: "The irony is…if we were married then—if she had been my wife, had been expecting our child as I'd dreamed then…" He paused and gestured to his arm in the sling… "None of this would have happened—I never would have been sent, never would have been there. Instead, everything was lost. Lord Grantham, please understand that I won't let it happen again. I care…I care very much for your approval, but I love your daughter—and she loves me—and I intend to give her the life she desires no matter the difficulties we may face. She's a grown woman and not foolish in the slightest; she's fully aware of the choice she's making. Believe me, I've tried to convince her otherwise, but the truth is: we're going to be married. Please don't put me in a position to have to choose again; I want to do right by all of you, I do. And I am so very sorry for what occurred before; I ask your forgiveness. But, please, you have to believe me—I love Edith and this is _right_." When he was met with silence, Anthony squeezed Edith's hand and they both turned to leave. Anthony nodded to Cora. "My apologies for the interruption this afternoon, Lady Grantham." He looked to Mary then. "This isn't the time, I know, but Lady Mary, please accept my most sincere condolences; I liked Matthew very much." His gaze went to all in the room, including Violet, whose own look almost mirrored Anthony's of regret and pain etched in his features. "I truly wish you all the best." With that, he and Edith walked out of the library and into the corridor to make their way out.

"Robert, please, you have to stop them," Cora pleaded.

Robert saw the look in his wife's eyes, a mere shadow removed from the grief that shook her the night of Sybil's death.

"We can't let them do this on their own. Please, Robert, hasn't there been enough—" Her voice broke.

Mary swiftly came to her mother's side, her arms around her as her eyes blazed on her father. "Papa—haven't we all endured enough? My God, she's been after him for years. I beg you, Papa, please, we've all kept them apart. Give Anthony your blessing and let's be done with this strife!"

Robert's eyes went wide in disbelief at his oldest daughter's words; his head cocked as his weight shifted to his heels. "Mary? You honestly feel this is right after what he's done—"

"Because it is, Robert." Violet never moved, save her eyes that shot to Robert's from her place near him by the hearth.

"What? Mama, you can't be—?"

"It is right. Relent—and give that gentleman your blessing." Her features softened. "Be done with it and…" She felt Cora and Mary now staring at her, mouths agape. "And let them be happy. They will be for now anyway." There was a long pause as the others waited for her caustic and biting finale. "Of course, no one really knows about the future…but they have the present—and you should give them that...they've waited eight years for it."

* * *

Anthony and Edith were already out the door, with Edith clutching him tightly to her side as Stewart held the door of the Rolls Royce for them. Noting the tense and pained expression on his master's face, Stewart chose to simply nod without a greeting. The two sat in the back with Edith resting her head on his shoulder.

"It's all right," she whispered.

"Of course, sweet one." He kissed her wind-battered curls. "Of course it is."

Stewart started the car, but before he could drive they all heard a cry.

"Edith! Anthony, please! Wait!"

There, hurrying towards the car was Cora Crawley and, behind her, Robert; his voice—unlike minutes before—a soft and pleading bellow over the car engine.

Anthony opened the door with his left hand and stepped out, standing slightly taller than the out-of-breath earl. "What is it?"

Robert and Cora looked to one another first, before Robert spoke. "We need to talk, please. Perhaps you two could stay?" Cora took her husband's elbow and tried to smile, apologetic and hopeful at once as she looked from Anthony to Edith, who emerged from the back seat as well.

"Perhaps for a cup of tea? We could all enjoy some of Mrs. Patmore's delightful biscuits or sandwiches…and we could…talk? I feel sure we can reach an understanding—all of us together."

Edith appeared defiant, but when she turned and looked up at Anthony, he gave her the most wonderful, hopeful grin and the light in his blue eyes convinced her.

"Of course, Mama."

"Yes, of course, we'd be delighted," Anthony agreed.

Cora slipped her hand in the crook of Robert's arm and, suddenly, as they walked several meters ahead of Edith and Anthony, she recalled that afternoon eight years prior, when Edith embarrassed her by inquiring of Anthony if she could go for a ride with him in his Rolls Royce in Mary's place and Anthony's response echoed… "I'd be delighted…" Eight years, Cora thought. "Far too long," she said in a whisper and glanced at her husband and then back at the couple striding in step behind them.

"Cora?" Robert asked, noting her murmur.

"Nothing, just…the wait is over," Cora said. When Robert appeared bemused, she clarified, "Eight years—their wait is over."

Robert bristled and she felt it—the tensing in his posture and muscles as he held out against the idea of the two marrying. His jaw clinched. "She deserves better."

Cora smiled at him, her eyes shining with joy for the first time. "She won't find it, Robert. She won't find anyone else who worships her the way he does—and the same is true of him. Let them, Robert, please, let them just be perfect together?"

Robert didn't respond, but stopped by where Carson stood at the front entrance, letting Anthony and Edith follow Cora to the library. As he watched them together in earnest—Anthony leaning to allow Edith to whisper something and their arms and hands intertwined—he glimpsed, for the first time in all of the eight years, the perfection about which Cora spoke…

* * *

_A/N: Hope you're enjoying it still... A bit more to go, I think. Thank you for reading and reviewing!_


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